The Day Transcending Night by StarSpray  

As you awake with morning's hush,
I am the swift, up-flinging rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight,
I am the day transcending night.
     Do not stand
         By my grave, and cry—
     I am not there,
          I did not die.
- “Immortality” by Clare Horner

- - 

Second Age 1697

In the centuries since the end of the War of Wrath and the start of a new Age, Lossenol and Daeron and Eluréd and Elurín had kept moving. They had all been in agreement that they wanted to see more of the world than just their small corner of Eriador and the Ered Luin where they had spent the twins’ childhood and then the War of Wrath—and so they had. They had lingered in the west until the kingdom of Lindon was established and Elros had sailed away with the Edain to their own island kingdom, and then they’d set off. They had visited Khazad-dûm and their Dwarven friends from the Ered Luin who had settled there after the loss of their own cities, and had crossed over the Misty Mountains to find the vales of the Anduin, and had crossed that river and come eventually to the Sea of Rhûn and the wide lands beyond where both Elves and Men lived, many entirely ignorant of all that had been happening in the west. Then they had come back over the mountains to find new cities and realms had sprung up in their absence. Númenor had flourished and mariners had returned to Middle-earth to found new cities—and, to Daeron’s dismay, to fell trees for their ships with little heed given to the forests they plundered. 

Lindon was thriving, and so was Eregion, the realm founded by the last scion of Fëanor in Middle-earth—Celebrimbor, son of Curufin. Eluréd and Elurín’s kinsman Celeborn and his wife Galadriel were also to be found there, but Daeron and Lossenol had chosen to avoid the city when Eluréd and Elurín had gone to visit them—Daeron because he did not care for cities or very much for his old acquaintances out of Doriath, and Lossenol because he wanted to avoid the Noldor, and particularly anyone who had once known or followed the Sons of Fëanor. He had been one of them, once, and that service had taken him to Doriath—and there he had been caught in a cave-in that cost him his left eye and all of his memories of the time before. It was only because Daeron had recognized the light in his good eye as that of one who had been born across the Sea that he knew with certainty that he was a Noldo at all. 

He’d left all of that behind, and he did not want it back, even now.

They’d ventured east again, but there were stirrings now of some dark power growing in the south, where mountains rose in strange formations and fumes spewed into the air to cover that land in shadows. It reminded Lossenol too much of Angband, and Daeron had reminded them all that Sauron had never been caught—Sauron who hated the line of Lúthien, and who had battled with Daeron himself as the world broke apart after the war, and lost. 

So they’d come back west, though not quite back into Eriador. They’d found a spot south of the White Mountains among some gently rolling hills, near a clear flowing stream, and chose that place to settle for a while. They built a house and a stable for their horses, Daeron sung up his Girdle of protection, and after a couple of years Lossenol started to think they might be able to put down roots. But that was a dangerous thought—the last time they’d done it, those roots had been violently torn up by war and dragonfire. 

And it seemed it might happen again. Eluréd came back from a hunting trip with the news they’d feared. “Armies are marching west,” he said even before he stepped through the door. “Through the Gap, passing over the Angren into Eriador. Their banners are black and bear the sign of a great red eye.”

“We’ve seen that before,” Elurín said. They had seen one or two in the east, but had never learned whose sign it was or where they came from. “Men or orcs?”

“Both,” said Eluréd. “Daeron, Lossë, we—I think we might be able to stay here, safe. But Elrond will not remain in Lindon—he’ll march out with Gil-galad, if he isn’t already in Eregion. They must know that this is coming.”

“We can’t follow the armies north,” said Daeron. “That is just asking for trouble. We might go west instead, and make our way north along the coast, but that will take a very long time.”

“What if we followed the coast as far as the Númenórean havens on the Gwathló?” asked Elurín. 

“You think they will involve themselves in this?” Lossenol asked, doubtful. 

Elurín shrugged. “At the least they might let us sail with them north to Lindon, and from there we can ride out to catch up with Elrond.”

“I can’t ride into battle,” Lossenol said. 

“Nor can I,” said Daeron, “but we might still be able to do something to help. And—if this is Gorthaur, as I fear…it’s only a matter of time before he learns of us. We have not made a secret of our movements in years past.”

“We can come back, after,” said Elurín. “The Girdle will hold, won’t it?”

“For a while, and I suppose there’s no reason to expect those armies to come this way—there’s no one here, except us.”

Lossenol sighed, and reached for his bag. “Better start packing, then.” 

They left the next morning, moving swiftly but carefully through the woods and hills, north and west, passing around the White Mountains and then striking due west toward the mouths of the River Angren. The lands were more open there, thanks to the timbering of Númenor, but the skies to the north were hazy, and the wind carried the faint scent of smoke. “At least this time it’s not a dragon,” Eluréd murmured. 

“No,” Daeron said grimly. “It’s worse.”

Summer was waning by the time they reached the coast, some ways south of the Angren’s mouth. It was misty and cool, and the beach was not sandy but pebbly. They made their camp in a small bit of woods, everyone quiet and thoughtful. Usually Daeron would take out his flute or Eluréd his harp, but no one was in the mood for music. Eluréd leaned against Lossenol, head on his shoulder. “Something is about to happen,” he murmured after a while, voice faint and distant. Elurín turned sharply to peer into his face, and Daeron looked up from the fire he was tending. “Something—big.”

“How big, birdie?” Daeron asked softly. “For us or for the world?”

“Both, I think. There’s—the Shadow is growing, and I cannot see past it. Eregion will burn—all the holly trees will wither, and the doors of Khazad-dûm will close.”

“Lindon is still strong,” said Daeron after a moment. “Gil-galad is strong. And I think if they are called upon the Men of Númenor will send aid. They must remember the ancient friendship of the Edain and the Eldar.”

The next morning Lossenol woke from a dream in which he was looking for someone, but upon waking he couldn’t remember who. It wasn’t the first time he’d had such a dream, though it had been years since his lost past had tried to assert itself in his mind. He lay for a while, curled up around Daeron under their blankets and cloaks, and listened to the birds in the trees. There were more of them than there should have been, even this late in the year. They were all fleeing the fires and battles in the north. 

Then he heard a voice, distant, somewhere south of them. The song sounded familiar, though something about it made Lossenol think it should not have been as mournful as it was. And the voice—he could have sworn that he knew that voice. It made his head hurt, a sharp pain just behind his eyes. He closed them and buried his face in Daeron’s hair, trying to ignore the voice and the pain, but even after it faded away the feeling of knowing persisted, and at last he got up, careful not to wake Daeron or the twins, and slipped away from their camp. Mist hung over the shore, and he saw no one. The wind picked up, blowing off of the water and casting the spray across his face. Without knowing why he ventured closer to the water’s edge. The stones were cold under his bare feet, and before he realized it he’d gone far enough that the waves washed up over his ankles, making him yelp and stumble back, feeling suddenly as though he’d been jolted awake, like he’d been half-dreaming before. 

He also felt like something was threatening to unravel inside of him. He needed Daeron—he needed to return to Daeron and—

A hand caught his wrist as he turned away from the water, and Lossenol cried out, spinning around and then freezing in place, confronted with a figure in the shape of a man but made mostly of sea foam and water—but with eyes that burned like stars, that bored into his, igniting the pain in his head again. “You are not one of Melyanna’s,” the figure said, tilting his head as he regarded Lossenol with something like curiosity. But curiosity from Ossë, Lossenol thought, was a dangerous thing. “So why does her power lay over you…?”

“Please let me go,” he whispered. “I didn’t—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

But Ossë ignored him and leaned forward, looking even more closely at him. A healer had done the same, once—a woman Daeron had known not long after they had met, who had tried to see what it was that kept Lossenol’s memories locked away. It had hurt in exactly this way, blinding, dizzying, enough to make him forget about everything except the pain and how much he needed for it to stop. 

Daeron had been there, last time. He had sung the pain away, and then he had sung Lossenol to sleep so he could recover. But Daeron was not there now, and Lossenol couldn't even cry out for him, and this pain was a thousand times worse. His knees gave out, but he hardly felt the stones when he hit them, or the waves when they washed up over him—violent waves, towering waves that caught and dragged him back into the water, where Ossë’s power enveloped him, nothing at all like Daeron’s, or even the twins’—it was the power of storms and of tides, all wildness and danger of the Sea. 

I see, Ossë’s voice echoed through his head. Lossenol opened his mouth to scream but only bubbles came out. This should be interesting. I think it is time you remember your name, son of Fëanor. Let’s change the words to this verse of the Song, shall we? 

Everything went dark. 

The great hall of Menegroth was half-flooded, fountains overrun and their water mingling with dirt and blood, running dark in the flickering lamplight. Before the dais where once Thingol and Melian had sat in splendor, he locked swords with Dior Eluchíl, both of them half-wild things in their fury. His sword slid home first, sinking through a gap in Dior’s armor—and Dior just grabbed his arm, yanking him in closer. “I know what you seek here,” he snarled in his ear, “and you won’t find it. The Silmaril is gone—and I am not as merciful as my mother. She spared your life—I refuse you death. Death would be too easy for you, Celegorm son of Fëanor.” The words buzzed through his ear, echoing oddly through the din of battle around them. “You’ll live to see the ruin of all you have wrought and the loss of all you hold dear.”

“You’re a little late for that,” he growled, and tried to push Dior off, but he would not be moved. 

“We’ll see,” said Dior, and only then did he release his grip, falling back against the thrones. His blood spilled over the dais, and he raised his eyes to the ceiling to speak another word, and then a terrible cracking sound erupted around them, and someone called Celegorm’s name, and—

He jerked awake as the Sea spit him out. He couldn’t breathe, there was just—water, his lungs full of it, and his stomach and his nose and—he somehow rolled onto his front, choking and retching until at last the water started to come out, but it wasn’t enough, he was still drowning—

“Atya!” Elurín’s hands found his shoulders. “Atya, what happened? Are you all right?”

That wasn’t right. He couldn’t be—he wasn’t—he heaved and water spilled out of his mouth and nose, and suddenly he could breathe again. He collapsed against Elurín, and was vaguely aware of Eluréd and Daeron running down to kneel by him too, all of them talking over one another. He couldn’t say anything. His throat burned and everything tasted like blood and saltwater. Everything hurt. His head, his shoulder—it was like waking up in Ossiriand all over again.

“Lossë?” Daeron’s hands were warm on his face. “Lossë, look at me.” He opened his eyes with effort. Daeron’s face swam before him. “It’s all right. We’ve got you. Just rest—you’re safe.”

There was something wrong with that, but he couldn’t think of what it was. Lossë wasn’t his name—or—it was his name but it shouldn’t be. It was not a name he deserved, but he didn’t…he couldn’t…

Eluréd and Elurín picked him up, carried him back to the camp where the three of them peeled off his soaked clothes and dressed him again in clean and dry ones. Daeron carefully dried his hair and combed it, and then wrapped him in blankets by the fire. Through it all he couldn’t do anything but cough up more seawater and shiver. “Sleep, Lossë,” he murmured, power wrapping around the words.

“N-no, please, I don’t—”

“Shh, it’s all right.” Daeron’s hand was on his face again, which was wet. He began to sing, a familiar song to chase away pain and to bring rest. He’d sung it in Ossiriand—it was the very first song that Lossenol had ever heard him sing. 

No, not Lossenol, that wasn’t—he wasn’t…

He slept, and his dreams were jumbled and confused, his life before blending strangely with his life after. He woke hours later, as evening fell, feeling battered and bruised and furious and afraid and relieved and devastated all in equal measure. When he rolled over his face hit Daeron’s leg, and Daeron’s hand immediately came to rest on his hair. “Don’t get up,” he murmured. “Just rest.”

He wouldn’t be saying such things if he knew. 

“He didn’t just fall into the waves,” one of the twins said from across the fire. “Something happened.”

“There was someone else there,” said the other. He thought that it was Eluréd speaking now—both twins were sometimes burdened with foresight, but Eluréd’s always seemed to be a little clearer.

“Ossë?”

“Who else? I think we would all know if it had been Ulmo himself.”

“We’ll figure it out in the morning,” said Daeron. “And then—I’m sorry, songbirds, but I don’t think we can continue on to Lindon. Not with Lossë in this state. As soon as he’s able to travel I think we should go home.”

“Of course,” said Elurín.

“M’not…” he tried to say, but his tongue felt too thick in his mouth, the words in his mind unable to get to his lips. That had nothing to do with the curse that had locked way his memories—it was a lingering effect from getting his skull bashed in when Menegroth had collapsed. These days it rarely bothered him—only when he was especially tired.

“Shh,” Daeron murmured, thumb stroking over his temple. “It’s all right.”

He drifted, unable to stay awake but unable to quite fall asleep either. Daeron sang quiet songs, and Eluréd played his harp. Memories marched through his mind, out of order and making little sense at first. But by the time morning came he felt able to sit up, even though his head still hurt terribly, and—

And he remembered. Everything. His childhood, the Darkening, his father’s death. Himlad. The Dagor Bragollach. Nargothrond—

No. He flinched away from that. He couldn’t think of Nargothrond. And then—the Nirnaeth, and Doriath…

He looked over at Eluréd and Elurín, seeing them just starting to stir. It was another grey and misty morning. Somewhere a bird called in the trees, alone and plaintive. He looked away from the twins, feeling sick. He’d known that they looked like Lúthien—Daeron had said so, often—but now he remembered, he knew exactly how true it was, and how true it was that they looked like their father. 

Dior couldn’t have had any idea how far his curse would reach—how it would entangle his own children. Celegorm deserved every bit of it, but Eluréd and Elurín didn’t. Daeron didn’t. Daeron had saved his life without knowing who he really was. They’d both been happy for him to leave his forgotten past behind, but thanks to Ossë that was now impossible. 

He couldn’t go to Lindon. No one would accept whatever help he could offer. He would find even less of a welcome from Celebrimbor in Eregion. But he couldn’t go home. Once Daeron and the twins learned the truth—that was it. It wouldn’t change anything they’d been through together and it certainly didn’t change the fact that Celegorm loved all three of them more than he thought he’d loved anyone besides his brothers, but he couldn’t stay. He covered his face with his hands, unable to bear the thought of losing any of them but knowing it was inevitable. It was like a knife shoved between his ribs.

“Lossenol?” Daeron stirred, and sat up, and the knife twisted. 

“That’s not my name,” he said into his palms. 

For a moment Daeron was silent. Then he said, “Yes, it is. It was a gift from Eluréd and Elurín.”

“But I can’t—” He lifted his head, met Daeron’s gaze, and—

He knew Daeron, by now. He could read him as well as he’d once been able to read Curufin, able to have a conversation in a glance. He could read that look of apprehension in Daeron’s eyes, could read the way he held himself very still, the way he spoke so carefully—just like he had in the very beginning, in the flet in Ossiriand, when they hadn’t known each other, when Daeron had been afraid of him. Celegorm couldn’t tell now if Daeron was afraid of him, but he was afraid, and…

Oh. Oh this was worse. He wasn’t going to lose Daeron—because you couldn’t lose something you’d never had to begin with.

“…You know, don’t you? You know who I am.”

“Lossë…” 

“How long—when did you—have you known all along?” He scrambled backward, almost falling over in the leaves. “You knew who I was and you never told me?”

“You didn’t want to know—”

“But I asked you! I asked if there was anything you knew or even guessed, and you lied—” He’d lied over and over again, when he claimed he didn’t know why the sight of Gil-Estel hurt, when he talked around his lost memories, always offering support if he ever chose to try to recover them but never actually encouraging— “But why—what would you—” If Ossë’s breaking of Dior’s curse had been like the world turning upside down, this was the world turning sideways. Everything looked wrong. Everything was called into sudden question. “Have you just—just been laughing at me all this time? At having a kinslayer under your thumb—”

“No!” Daeron cried. “It’s not—I didn’t know, I thought I could guess but I wasn’t sure, not until—”

“Not until what?”

“Until the Silmaril appeared in the sky and your Oath tried to wake up—but even then—”

“You lied to me! What else has been a lie?” He fell back again when Daeron started to reach for him. “Don’t touch me, Daeron—you—”

“Lossë?” The twins had woken as he raised his voice. “What’s going on?”

“Ask Daeron!” Celegorm snapped. “He knows. He’s known the whole time—he let you—he let us—”

“It’s not like that,” Daeron said, very quietly. “You know it’s not. Lossë—”

“That’s not my name!”

Silence fell over the camp. Then Elurín asked, very carefully, “What is your name, then?”

He didn’t look at the twins. He couldn’t look at the twins. He could barely look at Daeron, and he couldn’t make his tongue work. He couldn’t even choke out his own name because he knew what it would do to them. The knife twisted again. Every breath burned; he tasted blood in the back of his throat. 

Daeron didn’t answer the twins either. Instead he reached for the pendant around his neck—they all wore them, matching leaves carved of wood taken from the woods of Eriador, where they’d made their home until the War of Wrath, and carved by Daeron. Celegorm still had his around his neck, and if a part of him wanted to fling it away, the greater part never wanted to take it off. Daeron now pressed something on the edges of his, and it opened like a locket. Out of it fell a small flash of gold. “Your name is Celegorm,” he said finally, very softly, and held out his palm. Both of the twins froze, but Celegorm still couldn’t make himself look at them. “You were wearing this when Finglas brought you to me in Ossiriand. I guessed who you might be, then, but I did not know.”

He took the object that Daeron held out, and choked on the sudden grief that welled up at the sight of it. A pendant, small—a golden eight-pointed star. Curufin had made it—it had been one of the last things he’d made just for the sake of making something beautiful, before he had turned his mind entirely to blades and armor and weapons. He’d made such pendants for all of them, the same way Daeron had carved the leaves, but Celegorm didn’t know if any of his brothers had managed to keep theirs until they reached Doriath. He’d never taken his off. 

“Was it all lies?” he heard himself ask, then. “Was it—all this time, have you just…”

“You know that I haven't,” Daeron said. 

“No, I don’t know! I don’t think I know you at all!” He scrambled to his feet and fled, ignoring Eluréd when he called after him. The stones of the beach were cold under his feet, and he slipped more than once, falling into the waves and soaking himself all over again. In the water and the waves he thought he could hear Ossë laughing, but it didn’t matter. He just needed to get away.

He didn’t stop as the morning drew on and burned away the mists, drying out his clothes and hair and leaving him itchy under the salt that remained behind, though eventually he had to stop running. He walked through the heat of the day, through the first part of the afternoon. The grief that was clawing its way through him was not going to kill him, as much as he wished it would. He understood, now, what Dior had meant. Somehow he’d known that when Celegorm had entered Menegroth he hadn’t expected to leave it alive, even if he had told himself he was not courting death. He’d known that they would never get their hands on the Silmarils—not any of them, no matter who held them—and he had known their house was cursed, and he the worst of them all. The Everlasting Darkness had not seemed like a punishment, then. 

Finally, he stumbled, and then fell to his knees, hitting the stones hard but hardly feeling it past the searing, horrible, rending wave of loss that finally rose up to choke him until he opened his mouth to scream it into the uncaring wind. 

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Over the course of several weeks, Maglor had taken up sculpting—of a sort. He had gathered up driftwood and stones and seaweed, all in plentiful supply on that particular stretch of shore, and had spent many hours losing himself in putting them together in shapes that, at long last, looked the way he wanted. Six statues now stood in a row several feet above the high tide line. Anyone who happened to pass by, unlikely though it was, would recognize them as people, but he thought only he would know them for his brothers, from Maedhros to Ambarussa. 

As he hummed to himself, adding a few small stones to finish Curufin’s face, a sudden scream rent the air. It was a terrible, ragged sound, and under Maglor’s hands the sculpture of Curufin shivered and then fell apart—and so did Caranthir beside him, and Maedhros, and the twins at the end of the row. He stumbled back with a cry of his own, looking at the piles of wood and stone that were all that was left of his weeks of labor. 

Except one. Celegorm’s statue had lost a few stones, but it remained standing. Maglor stared at it, and then turned away, looking northward up the beach from which the sound had come. He’d heard faint music from that direction the day before, and had almost thought he recognized it—but then, he’d thought, what would bring Daeron of Doriath to this part of the world?

That scream, though—Maglor recognized the sound, if not the voice. He’d screamed like that himself before, long ago when the world had broken around him and Maedhros had cast himself into the fire, and he had been left alone with nothing but a sword and a burned hand and a grief that he’d thought for a while would either kill him or drive him mad. He could see no one, but somewhere just out of sight, someone was in pain. He thought they must also be lost—that kind of scream didn’t tear itself out of someone if they were not utterly, horribly alone. There was probably no real comfort he could give them for whatever had happened to drive them to such agony, but he could at least make sure they were all right—that they were not hurt, that they had food, and perhaps shelter. If they really were alone, maybe he and they both could take comfort in someone else to share a fire with for a night or two. 

He picked up his sword—better to be safe than sorry—and made his way up the beach, thinking of shared campfires and trying not to think about the fact that the last person with whom he’d done that had been his brother. The stones crunched pleasingly under his boots, and he hummed in time with the waves that washed up over them. Occasionally he paused to pick up a shell, and once for a bit of sea glass—his favorite thing to find, always pleasantly smooth and cool against his palm.

After a while he saw a figure up ahead, huddled on their knees as the waves foamed around them, doubled over and heaving with the force of their sobs. It was a heartbreaking sight, and Maglor hurried forward, really worried now that they might be injured too, or that they were half frozen from kneeling in cold water, especially since they had no cloak or jacket. “Hail, stranger,” he called while still some distance away, not wanting to frighten them before he got too close. “Are you lost? I have—” He broke off when their head jerked up. Tangled and damp silver hair fell forward over it, but the part of the face he could see— 

Maglor halted, and then stepped backward, horror taking hold of him in place of the concern. That face belonged to his brother—but that wasn’t possible. Celegorm was dead. Maglor had seen himself when the ceiling of Menegroth’s throne room fell in. They had searched all possible exits afterward, spending days digging through rubble and snow to find anyone who might have survived, might have been trapped, or even just bodies—but there had been no one. Menegroth had become both Dior’s tomb and Celegorm’s, when they slew one another before the thrones. 

And yet here was Celegorm, wide-eyed, stumbling to his feet, slipping on the wet stones—

No, it wasn’t possible. He’d gone mad at last, maybe, to be seeing ghosts like this. Maglor turned and fled. He heard the ghost call his name, hoarse and almost as he remembered Celegorm’s voice, but he did not turn back. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. If he wasn’t dreaming it was a trick and he did not want to know who had found him or who would use his brother in such a way—and Celegorm, of all of them. Wouldn’t some enemy try to use Maedhros instead? It didn’t make sense.

He reached his broken sculptures just as Celegorm caught up. “Maglor, wait!” He grabbed Maglor’s wrist, and then when Maglor twisted to try to pull free they both went down, landing hard on the stony beach as Maglor struggled to get free, turning and hitting and even trying to scratch— “Maglor—Maglor, please! Stop!” It was the please that made Maglor fall still, staring up at Celegorm as he straddled his chest, both of them breathing hard. Celegorm was soaking wet, his face splotchy with tears, and the left side of it was a mess of scars around an eye gone milky with blindness. “It’s me,” he said. 

“That’s—no, that’s impossible,” Maglor whispered. “You’re…I saw you—”

“I’m sorry.” Celegorm sat up and then pulled Maglor up after him. His embrace was tight, almost painful, as he buried his face in the folds of Maglor’s cloak. “I’m so sorry.”

It was really him. Maglor didn’t think he could dream this up, didn’t think any kind of madness could conjure this. He wrapped his own arms around Celegorm, eyes burning. “You’re really here?” he whispered.

“I am now. I’m sorry. Cáno, I’m so—”

“Stop apologizing, I don’t—you’re alive—” 

They sat like that for a long time, just holding one another, weeping, both of them apologizing and then telling the other to stop, over and over again. Maglor had so many questions but he also didn’t care about any of the answers because whatever had happened, his brother was alive and he had him back. For so long he’d been entirely alone, and now all of a sudden he wasn’t, and it was equal parts terrifying and such a relief that he didn’t know what to do with it. 

Eventually, Celegorm noticed the sculpture that was still standing. He sat back, staring at it. “Is that—is that me?” 

Maglor glanced at it, and almost wanted to laugh. “Yes. I made—I made all of you, but when you screamed earlier, all the others broke apart.” And that made him remember the scream itself, and all the agony that it had held in it. “Tyelko, what…what brought you out here? What happened?” He reached up to brush his thumb over the scars beneath Celegorm’s blind eye. “Where have you been all this time?”

Celegorm’s expression crumpled, and he leaned forward to hide his face in Maglor’s shoulder again. “I forgot,” he said into the fabric of his cloak. “I forgot everything. I woke up in Ossiriand and I didn’t—I didn’t even know my name.”

“But you know it now.”

There was a sound that might have been laughter, if it didn’t also sound like crying. “I remembered this morning. Or—it started yesterday, but I woke up this morning knowing everything. And Daeron…”

“Daeron?” Maglor gently pushed at Celegorm’s shoulders until he drew back. “Hang on. Let’s not sit out here in the open; it’s getting cold.” The sun was sinking toward the west, and a chill wind was picking up. “And you’re barefoot, Tyelko—”

“Oh.” Celegorm looked down at himself. His clothes were of good make and not nearly as worn or patched as Maglor’s, but he was still damp and bedraggled from kneeling in the surf, and when a gust of wind caught them he shivered. “Left them back at the camp.”

“You can get them tomorrow, maybe,” Maglor said. “Come on.” He took Celegorm’s hand and led him away from the beach, past the tough patches of shore grass and into the trees where he had made his own camp. It wasn’t much, but he had an extra blanket that he wrapped around Celegorm’s shoulders before kneeling to restart the fire.

Celegorm looked around. He held himself carefully, and there was a tightness around his eyes that suggested he was in pain. When Maglor asked, though, he just shrugged. “Headache. It’s…it’ll pass. Probably. It’s not as bad as this morning. Or the ones I used to get.”

“Because you’ve just remembered…?” Maglor ventured. 

“Yes. And—sometimes it just hurts. Sometimes it’s hard to—to talk. Feels hard now.” He lowered his gaze to his arms looped around his knees. “From getting my—my skull bashed in. Sorry.”

Maglor tossed another stick on the fire. “You know I’m not really a healer, but I know some songs…”

Celegorm shook his head, once. “It’s as healed as it’ll get. Most of the time I don’t—hurt at all.” 

“I see.” Maglor sat back on his heels, and looked at his brother. It had been a very long time, and they were both greatly changed, but almost Maglor wanted to say that Celegorm had changed backwards. Besides the scars, he seemed more like the brother he had known in their youth, when they’d grown up together racing horses and sharing secrets, long before they’d sworn any oaths or come to Middle-earth where Celegorm had turned into someone hard and sharp and dangerous, not only a hunter but a predator, bitterly angry. Those edges had softened again, rounded out like the coastline that he had watched slowly turn from something jagged and broken to something smoother, more natural. The sadness was new, though—that awful, bone-deep grief—but it was also familiar. It was something they shared. “I’m not really good at speaking to other people anymore, either,” Maglor offered after a few minutes. “Not for the same reasons, I just…I’ve been alone for a very long time. No don’t apologize,” he added quickly when Celegorm flinched and opened his mouth. “It’s not—I didn't it like that. See what I mean? I’m sorry. Just…”

Celegorm reached over and took his hand, the right one. It was scarred over now, a faceted pattern of ancient burns across his palm. “Does it still hurt?” Celegorm asked softly.

“No. Gets stiff sometimes—it’s just an old injury now.”

“Is it…it’s true, isn’t it. What they say of Nelyo.”

“That he threw himself into the earth?” Maglor said softly. Celegorm nodded. “Yes. I didn’t see what he was doing until too late—I couldn’t reach him.”

“I’m sorry,” Celegorm whispered. “If I wasn’t going to die in Doriath, I should’ve been there.”

“I’m glad you weren’t there, Tyelko. I’m glad you never tried to touch them—that you weren’t burned. Wherever you’ve been, I’m so glad you didn’t continue down the same path we did.”

As night fell, the wind carried down from the north the sound of a flute, mournful and haunting. Celegorm shuddered at the sound and leaned hard against Maglor. “Is that Daeron?” Maglor asked. Celegorm nodded, but didn’t speak. “Will he be looking for you?”

“I hope not. He—he knew. All along. And he never…” Celegorm shuddered again and fell silent. 

There was a story there. Maglor rather hoped Daeron would come looking, if only so he could be the one to speak to him. They’d only met once, at the Mereth Aderthad. Everything had been so hopeful then—it felt like another lifetime, now. He remembered Daeron well—he had been talented and clever, and both easy and fun to talk to. There had been an air of lingering melancholy about him, and he had held himself somewhat apart, except when he and Maglor had slipped away to talk alone. It had been the easiest friendship that Maglor had ever fallen into—they’d both lived and breathed music in such similar ways, but thought differently enough that their conversations had always been interesting, that they both had had much to teach and to learn.

It hadn’t lasted. But he’d done his best to pass on what Daeron had taught him to Elrond and Elros later. He still remembered the songs that Daeron had shared with him, and the ones they’d played together by the Pools of Ivrin. And now he had no idea what to make of whatever this connection was between Daeron and Celegorm. It sounded as though they’d been together since the aftermath of Doriath, which meant that Maglor owed Daeron an enormous debt, for saving his brother’s life. But something had happened that morning or the day before, and Maglor couldn’t guess whether it was something either of them had done, or the result of some outside force. 

Ossë had been laughing, the day before—but Maglor often heard his laughter on the wind, and had only thought that it heralded a storm to come in the next day or two.

“We can talk more tomorrow, if you’re feeling better,” he said. “Want me to sing you to sleep?”

Celegorm’s breath hitched. “Yes please,” he whispered.

Maglor stroked his hair and sang a silly and quiet song from their youth, long ago and far away. He hadn’t written it, but it had once been one of Celegorm’s favorites. He felt Celegorm shudder in his arms as more tears escaped, but he did not keep fighting the exhaustion that soon dragged him down into sleep. 

Once Celegorm was asleep, Maglor tucked both blankets around him, and then slipped away, venturing back out onto the beach. He could still hear Daeron’s flute. It was tempting to go find him—he’d thought about it before, though those had just been passing fancies on days he felt particularly lonely and had remembered the rumors that Daeron, too, had disappeared to wander forever alone in grief. Until now he’d never had any idea of where to even start looking. But the temptation passed quickly; he wouldn’t go, now—not without Celegorm. 

They would have to go in the morning though, Maglor thought as he returned to the camp. Celegorm had left Daeron barefoot and with no supplies—not even any weapons. Maglor sighed and joined him under the blankets, wondering what kind of confrontation had made him do such a thing. Celegorm rolled in his sleep, throwing an arm around Maglor’s waist and murmuring something unintelligible. Maglor wrapped the blankets around them both and stared up at the stars through the tree branches until he fell asleep, wondering what he’d done to deserve such a miracle.

In the morning he woke confused, wondering why he was so warm, and then he opened his eyes to find Celegorm still curled up around him, though he was already awake. “Tyelko…?”

“Cáno.”

Maglor rolled over so they were both lying on their sides facing each other. “I can’t believe you’re really here,” he whispered. “I missed you so much…”

“No you didn’t.” Celegorm didn’t meet his gaze. “Not—before Doriath, I was—”

“You’re my brother. Of course I missed you!”

“I was a monster,” he whispered. “I don’t…it feels like someone else did all of that. But it wasn’t someone else, it was me, and then I—Cáno, I’ve made it even worse—”

“What do you mean?”

“Dior’s sons. They were—another Ent found them, brought them out of Doriath. To Ossiriand.”

“Another Ent…that’s what happened to you, too?” That explained why they had found no trace of him, maybe, if an Ent had discovered him and carried him away. It had snowed hard—those signs would have been covered quickly.

Celegorm nodded. “Daeron was there. He said he’d felt called back west of the Ered Luin. And then the Ents brought us to him, where he was spending the winter in this old flet…”

“So the Ent and then Daeron saved your life. And Dior’s sons’.” Maglor frowned, a few vague memories from the War of Wrath coming back to him. “We heard rumors of mighty singers keeping the mountains clear. Daeron’s name was mentioned, but I don’t think I really believed it was him.”

“That was him—him and the twins. I was there too, but I’m no singer, not like you. Or them. But—they didn’t know who I was. And I didn’t know who I was, except that Daeron knew me for a Noldo, and the Ent had told him something of what had happened in Doriath, so…they knew I was a kinslayer, but not that I was the very worst of all of them—”

“Tyelko…”

“Except Daeron did know.” Celegorm pulled a small pendant from his pocket, a golden star on a slender golden chain. Curufin's work. “He kept this the whole time.”

“He must have had a good reason for it,” said Maglor. He reached under his shirt to pull out the matching pendant that he wore. Celegorm touched it with light fingers and then looked away. 

“Probably,” Celegorm said after a moment. “But it’s…he lied. All this time, and…I don’t know what else he might have lied about.”

“You can ask him,” Maglor pointed out. 

“I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if I want to know the answer. And—I don’t think I can ever see the twins again.” 

Maglor recognized that misery—he knew it intimately. “I’m sorry, Tyelko,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

“They called me their father,” Celegorm whispered. “Me and Daeron both—even though we tried to tell them not to. And now they know that I’m the one who killed their real father, and…”

“I was the reason Elrond and Elros lost their mother,” Maglor said after a moment. “I did not kill her as you killed Dior, but I was there—I and Maedhros—when she threw herself with the Silmaril into the Sea. Because of us. We found the twins afterward and I insisted that we take them with us, because Sirion was burning and Ambarussa were dead, and I didn’t know whether anyone would come from Balar before orcs or worse came on our heels. I meant to send them back to Gil-galad much sooner than I did, but it wasn’t possible. It was too dangerous. So I raised them as best I could, and I loved them—I still love them, so much. And they loved me too, at least until we parted ways. It’s impossible to know them, those children, and not love them. But that love grew in full knowledge of what I had done—I never hid it from them or tried to lie. I wish I could tell you that Eluréd and Elurín’s love will survive this, but I don’t know. I don’t know them.”

“Why didn’t you ever go back? They looked for you—Elrond and Elros. Until Elros sailed to Númenor, they searched for you.”

Maglor swallowed hard past the sudden lump in his throat. “I didn’t know that. I just—I don’t remember very much from then, from the time after Nelyo died. When I came back to myself I was miles away and—I don’t know how much time had passed. I don’t even know how I survived. I wasn’t trying very hard.”

“Cáno…”

“I’m better now. It was a long time ago.”

“But you’re still out here, all alone—”

“So are you.”

“That’s different. I was…” Celegorm faltered, and then hid his face again. “We were going to follow the coast up to Lindon. There’s war in the north. It started a couple of years ago but even more armies are marching up through the Gap this year—it’s getting bad. And Tyelpë is there. And—Elrond.”

Fear gripped Maglor’s heart in an icy fist. “What do you mean, war? War with whom?”

“We suspect Sauron,” Celegorm said, “but we don’t know for sure, it’s just what Daeron fears most. We’ve spent time in Lindon—we stayed there after the war until Elros left—but for a long time we were in the east—traveling, exploring. We only came back west a few years ago. There were stirrings in the east—some power arising, bearing the sign of a great red eye.”

“I haven’t heard anything of that…but then, it has been a very long time since I sought out news.” He had thought all wars were over—except for maybe little petty ones between kingdoms, but nothing that would involve the Elves, especially not Gil-galad’s realm, or Celebrimbor’s. He did know of Ost-in-Edhil and some marvelous tales of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, but he’d never dared to venture that far north. It was just safer to remain far away, just better if the only audience for his songs was the Sea and the gulls. “I have thought that the fall migrations began early this ear—there are more birds, and not all the same ones that I usually see this far south.”

“They’re fleeing the fires. It…last time I saw birds flying like this, a dragon had come east of the Ered Luin.”

“What?”

“It was right at the start of the War of Wrath. It was slain—Elurín helped do that, and Eluréd was furious with him for weeks afterward—but not before all the woods between Lake Nenuial and the mountains and the dwarf road were burned.” He paused for a moment. “Including our home, near the Lhûn.”

“But you all got away,” Maglor said faintly.

“Yes. Elurín still has the scars, though—he was splashed with its blood when it finally died.”

The way Celegorm spoke of the twins made something under Maglor’s ribs hurt. It was so obvious that he loved them, the same way Maglor loved Elrond and Elros. Even just the fear of this new rift was breaking his heart, and Maglor didn’t know what to do to help. “We should return to your camp today,” Maglor said. “You need your things. If they won’t speak to you, I can go in your stead.”

“The twins won’t be any happier to…well, maybe they’ll speak to you. Elrond has told us a little of you, and I think he and Elros told Eluréd and Elurín more.”

“I’m glad they were all able to meet,” Maglor said. “But—come on. I’m sure I can make Daeron listen to me, at least. We were friends once for a little while.”

“I know. He’s spoken before of the Mereth Aderthad. I think…he might be glad to see you.” Celegorm sat up. “I just…never realized…”

“Do you know what it was that made you forget?” Maglor asked as he rolled up the blankets. “Or what brought the memories back?”

“I do,” Celegorm said, but he didn’t elaborate. Maglor didn’t press for more. There would be time—what a strange and wondrous thing, to have time with his brother!—and just then he was more worried about Celegorm getting proper shoes, the rest of his clothes, and his weapons. He kicked dirt over the fire’s ashes and reached for Celegorm’s hand. 

It was a long walk to where Celegorm had made camp with Daeron and Dior’s sons. He’d left them early the morning before, and had walked, he said, until he couldn’t anymore. They did not hurry, and Maglor filled the silence with small stories of his own wanderings, of some of the places he had visited and some of the things he’d seen. Celegorm was quiet, as he hadn’t ever been before, and they both stuck close to one other, hand in hand, shoulders bumping. It was another bright day after the morning fog burned off, the sun warm even though the wind held a chill. 

By the middle of the afternoon, Celegorm slowed, scanning the woods ahead. Maglor glanced around himself, but saw no sign of any other person. “They might have left,” Celegorm said after a moment. It was hard to read his tone. “But…come on. It’s just up ahead.” He led the way off the beach into another wood, not unlike the one where Maglor had made his own camp. They found the spot easily, though Maglor would not have known without looking closely that anyone had camped there at all if it were not for the pack and bedroll left behind, with a sword and a bow and quiver set beside it, neat and tidy. A pair of boots was there too, and Celegorm sighed and went to dig out a pair of socks so he could put them on. He pulled out what looked like small woodcarvings first, paused and stared at them, and then shoved them deep into the pocket before finding what he was looking for.

“Now what do you want to do?” Maglor asked. 

“Dunno. Hadn’t thought much beyond…facing the birdies.”

“The who?”

“I started calling them songbirds as a sort of nickname when we met, when I started teaching them bird calls. It stuck. For a while we called them Pínfileg and Pínamrent in front of strangers. That lasted through the War of Wrath.” Celegorm pulled on one boot and reached for the other. “Daeron had a price on his head out of Angband, like you did. We learned that the hard way, and afterward there was nothing he was more scared of—of someone coming after him and finding Eluréd and Elurín too. But even since they stopped needing those names, we call them our songbirds. Birdies.”

“I used to call Elrond and Elros my little stars,” Maglor said after a moment.

“You know their father’s the one carrying the Silmaril now? Eärendil—little Idril’s son.”

“Yes, I heard that. I don’t remember when.”

Celegorm finished lacing up his boots. “…I think most of the news we got east of the mountains came from you. I used to go visit the Dwarves a few times a year.”

“Ambarussa visited them sometimes—or we sent other messengers. We did some trade, though there was precious little we had to offer except news.”

Celegorm suddenly closed his eyes. “Stars above,” he whispered. “They were right there. The year the boys turned fourteen—the first time I took just one of them with me to the mountains. Kóri told me Amrod and Amras were on the other side of the pass, but I didn’t…”

“You didn’t know, Tyelko.”

“I should have.” He rose to his feet. “I’m going to see if I can find out where they’ve gone. Daeron said something about going home, but that was before they realized…” 

Maglor waited while Celegorm disappeared into the woods. He looked around, feeling like someone else was nearby. His hand strayed to the hilt of his sword, but he let go as soon as he realized it, and crossed his arms instead. He hoped that it was Daeron who was still there, or somewhere they might find him quickly. In time, hopefully, Celegorm would see Daeron’s lies for the kindness they were. In keeping that secret for so long, he’d saved Celegorm’s life—and most likely the lives of many others, for Maglor had no doubt of what would have happened if Celegorm had returned to them after Doriath, even wounded. Without that forgetting—he would have still been so angry, and it would not have been good.

Finally, Celegorm returned leading a horse. “They’ve gone. One horse went north and east—most likely Daeron’s. I can’t find signs of the others.”

“Might they have gone on to Lindon, as you were planning before?”

“Maybe.” But Celegorm looked troubled. “Only—they wouldn’t want to be parted from Daeron. Especially Eluréd. But if…if they’re as upset about the lies as I was…I don’t know.”

“Maybe they just need a little time,” Maglor said. “It only happened yesterday. Maybe they’ve gone by another route and will join with Daeron later.”

“But it’s autumn.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Daeron, he—it’s not a good time of year for him. It never has been, but it was really bad for a long time. He came close to fading entirely, before we met, and once or twice afterward. He hasn’t come that close since before the War of Wrath, but…” Celegorm’s fists clenched and loosened at his sides as he seemed to be debating with himself.

Maglor asked carefully, “Did you…speak, about this? Or did you just run off as soon as you realized?” He saw Celegorm bristle. “I don’t mean—no, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to accuse you. I just—you can’t erase more than a thousand years of companionship in a few minutes. Are you two—”

“We’re not lovers.”

“All right—but you do love him. That’s obvious. We can follow Daeron—we can—can go to your home, and you and he can have it out. It will be slower going for us, since I don’t think your horse can bear us both as far or as fast as Daeron riding alone, so you both have time to think about what you want to say.”

“I don’t think he was angry,” Celegorm said after a moment. “I think he was afraid.”

“All the more reason to go after him, isn’t it? If Eluréd and Elurín have gone to Lindon, we cannot follow. At least, I can’t. But it sounds to me as though they will choose to follow Daeron too, and maybe we’ll find them there also when we arrive.”

“I don’t want to drag you into this mess. I—”

“You’re my brother. They’re your family—so that makes them mine, too, after a fashion. Anyway, I did consider Daeron a friend, for a short time, and I have missed him. I would like to see him again.”

“I…all right. We’d better get going, then. It’s milder this far south but it’ll still get cold, and you don’t have any decent gear.”

“It’s decent enough.”

“It’s in tatters, Cáno—oh no, what did I say?”

Maglor wiped his sleeve over his face to catch the sudden tears. “Nothing. It’s fine. I’m fine. I just—stars, Tyelkormo, I missed you so much.”

Celegorm wrapped him up in a fierce hug. “You won’t have to ever again,” he said. “Never again.”

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Daeron watched Lossenol—Celegorm once more, now—disappear through the trees toward the shore with a terrible, sinking feeling in his chest. It felt like the end—it was the end, at least of this chapter of their lives, and it did not seem as though the next one would lead to anything but more heartbreak. He’d expected nothing less, but he had not expected it to happen now. Not like this. He closed the locket pendant around his neck, and gripped it tight for a moment, though it didn't offer the same kind of comfort that it usually did. 

For several minutes there was silence. Then Elurín said, “You really knew all along?”

“I guessed,” Daeron said without looking at him. He didn’t want to see whatever was on their faces. “It was why I tried to keep distance between you in the beginning, do you remember?”

“I remember,” Eluréd said quietly. “I remember also that we were all meant to find one another.”

“But he—” Elurín began.

“Don’t try to rewrite the past, Elurín,” Eluréd snapped. It was rare that his temper showed, and Daeron hated that he was the cause of it now. “You were as sure of it as I was, and I am still sure of it. What happened this morning does not change all that happened before. He’s still our Lossë.”

“He killed our father, Eluréd.”

“We knew he was a kinslayer—that he was in Doriath. And I would wager anything that it was our father who placed the curse on him that locked his memories away. We can never know why, maybe, but the three of us would not be here, now, without him.” When Daeron finally looked over he found the twins glaring at each other. Elurín was the one who looked away first; he grabbed his boots and stormed away into the trees, heading away from the beach, in the opposite direction that Celegorm had gone. Eluréd watched him go in silence before looking back at Daeron. “What other secrets have you kept, Daeron?” he asked, quiet now, and wary.

“None. I promise, Eluréd—that is the only one.”

“Why keep it so long?”

Daeron turned to restart the fire, coaxing flames from the still-warm coals. As he added a few twigs and watched them catch he said, “Selfishness and fear, mostly. He told me once that he feared what would happen if he remembered—it wasn’t as though he could remember absolutely nothing. There were flashes, some things he just knew or understood about himself. He was sure that if he ever remembered what he had lost, the grief of it would overwhelm and kill him. I just didn’t want to lose him—especially not like that.”

“Do you think that will still happen?”

“I don’t know.”

“Should someone go…”

“No. We aren’t who he needs right now.”

“Then who…”

Daeron sighed. He put a larger stick onto the fire. “He’s just remembered his brothers,” he said softly. “His brothers who are all dead—except maybe Maglor, who is lost. I’ve told you before that I met Maglor and Maedhros at the Mereth Aderthad. It was obvious to me that they loved one another—just as much as you and Elurín do—and you know yourself how deeply Lossë—Celegorm—loves. He grieved them even when he did not understand why, and now it will be worse.”

“He shouldn’t be alone,” Eluréd said. 

“Give it a few hours, birdie. And be prepared for him to send you away again.”

“Just because I don’t get angry like Elurín doesn’t mean I’m not as stubborn as he is.”

Daeron couldn’t help but smile a little. “You get it from Thingol,” he murmured. 

“I think we get it from everyone.” Eluréd got up and came to wrap his arms around Daeron. “I’m not angry with you, Ada,” he said. “But I wish you hadn’t kept this secret so long.”

“I hadn’t actually thought about it in a very long time,” Daeron said, leaning his head against Eluréd’s. “But whatever happens—I do not think we should go to Lindon.” Vague but plausible tales, and the fact that no one they met expected to see Celegorm son of Fëanor in the company of Daeron of Doriath or Dior’s sons, was usually enough to keep probing questions at bay. Or it had been when Celegorm had not known the truth himself—it would be very different now.

“Maybe not,” Eluréd said, though he sounded doubtful. “But—but Celebrimbor, is he not—”

“I think he is beyond our reach now, Eluréd. And he will have had ample warning, surely, and Gil-galad will be marching out with his own people—I do not think any of us would make much of a difference in this war. Especially not now.”

Elurín came back after a little while, and then he and Eluréd left the camp. Daeron heard their voices rising and falling somewhere out on the beach, but he remained where he was, waiting for Celegorm to return. It was hard to readjust the name in his mind—Celegorm had answered to the name of Lossenol far longer than he had ever answered to Celegorm, and Daeron realized he didn’t actually know what his Quenya name was, since the Noldor had not always chosen direct translations when taking names in Sindarin. He passed the time by reorganizing Celegorm’s things, setting them aside for when he came back—just in case he returned only to take them and leave again. He got out his flute but couldn’t make himself play. Then he got out a knife and a bit of wood and carved little animal figures for a few hours. Among them were a sparrow and a lark, and these he tucked into a pocket of Celegorm’s pack as a reminder of Eluréd and Elurín, who Celegorm had himself named Pínfileg and Pínamrent, long ago when they needed new names to keep themselves hidden from the Enemy. 

He had just started a carving of a fox when a sudden scream reached his ears, carried on the wind. He dropped the fox and it rolled into the fire as he scrambled to his feet. Out on the beach Eluréd and Elurín had turned southward, and before Daeron could say anything Eluréd took off at a run. Elurín remained very still, and didn’t pull away when Daeron reached for him. “I’ve never heard anyone make a sound like that before,” he said quietly. 

“Neither have I,” said Daeron, “but I know the pain that causes it. Elurín, I’m sorry.”

“I just don’t…I don’t know how to…knowing this, is that why you were so quick to give them all grace? The Fëanorians?”

“I think I would have managed it eventually—but yes, without Lossë it would have taken longer. We were able to come to know him freed, at least in part, from his Oath, and from all that had driven him to swear it in the first place. The Oath led to cruelty and bloodshed, but it was also a cruelty to those who swore it. I find myself resenting Fëanor himself now, far more than any of his sons.”

“You sound like Elrond,” Elurín said after a moment. “He said something similar once—about the Oath being cruel to them even more than anyone else.”

“It was a torment to Lossë, too, even if he didn’t understand what it was or why.”

“I remember you said once he would have to reckon with the shadows that we could see in him. Did you mean the Oath, or did you mean this curse’s undoing?”

“Both, though the Oath has long been over and gone.”

The wind off of the water was cold, and Daeron did not like the echo of laughter that he heard on it. He retreated to the campsite, and Elurín followed. They spoke little; Elurín fixed the strap of a saddlebag, and Daeron fixed lunch—enough for all four of them, though neither Celegorm nor Eluréd reappeared until late—and then returned to his carving. And when Eluréd did return, he was alone. 

“There is someone else down the shore,” he said as he dropped to the ground beside Elurín. “It’s Maglor.”

Daeron looked up. “Did you see him? Does he know—”

“They’re together. I saw them through the trees and I heard them talking—but I did not intrude, or stay to listen.”

“…That’s it, then,” Elurín said. “He won’t be coming back.” 

“We don’t know that,” Eluréd protested.

“There’s still all that’s happening in the north, and we should…”

“I think Daeron’s right—we’re not meant to go to Lindon, at least not by way of the coast,” Eluréd said. “I think we were meant to come this way so Lossë could reunite with his brother. But I do not know what we’re supposed to do now.”

It was a relief, in a way, not to need to continue on to Lindon. Daeron had been uneasy about it from the start, though he had never been given such knowledge with the kind of clarity that Eluréd often was. “I think if any of us stay here, it should be you two,” he said after a moment. “I’m the source of this—all of this, but even if he chooses to leave again with Maglor, I believe he will at least give you the kindness of a farewell. You should stay and wait. I will leave in the morning to go home.”

“But Daeron…”

“It’s better this way. Especially if Maglor is with him. I do not have it in me to face him if he is wrathful.”

“Nothing good ever happens when we split up,” Elurín said. 

“This is different, Elurín. And I’m only going back home—you know exactly where to go to find me. Just—stay to be sure that Lossë is all right, please. For his sake and yours. If he comes back with you, all the better—but if he doesn’t, please at least do not part in anger with him. And after this—at least when next you see Elrond you can tell him with certainty that Maglor lives.”

The night passed very slowly. Daeron played music until the twins fell asleep, and then kept playing, finding himself reaching for old and melancholy songs that he had not even thought of in many years. Most of them dated back to his days of solitary wandering, before he’d ventured back west just in time to have a half-dead kinslayer and a pair of very young children dropped in his lap. At the time it had been terrifying. He’d had to keep all of them alive on his own in the middle of winter while storms raged outside and orcs prowled the land, and until they had made it across the mountains he’d feared that any moment Celegorm would remember who he was—and that he would be wrathful. Now he could look back and know it to be the best thing that had ever happened to him. If he had been left alone he was sure that he would have faded after just a few more years, just lain down in some shadowed forest glade in Eriador and died, and no one would have ever known. 

It had been a very, very long time since he’d felt himself in that kind of danger. But the year was waning, and that was always when he felt most tired, and most prone to melancholy. He could feel it creeping up on him already—his decision to return home without waiting for Celegorm was in part because he wanted to crawl into his own bed and hide from the rest of the world, even if it would be colder than it usually was without anyone else in it. He wasn’t sure what he would do if this really was the end—and of course it coincided with the rise of the Shadow again. Whatever anyone else said, Daeron was sure that it was Sauron marching through Eriador even at that moment, setting fire to the ancient woods and plundering all that stood in his way. If he could no longer serve his master he would seek to make himself master, and it had been foolish to ever expect that he would simply fade away into nothing, as they’d hoped after the War of Wrath had ended. And this time, Daeron wasn’t sure there was anything they could do to help. Especially not when they had no idea what was happening and no way to find out.

In the morning, he packed his things up and embraced the twins in turn. “Be safe,” he said. “Take care of each other.”

“Are you sure one of us shouldn’t—”

“I’ll be fine. I was journeying alone long before I met either of you, remember? This isn’t so far—and I’ll be moving more quickly than we did coming west.”

“Just be careful, please,” Eluréd said. “And—promise you’ll be at home when we return?”

“I promise, birdies. I have no intention of slipping away without a word.” Daeron had to stand on his toes to kiss their foreheads. “I love you both so much. I’ll see you soon.”

It was more than a relief to leave the coast, to enter into more familiar terrain. He’d liked his visits to the seaside in his youth, especially going out under the stars so it felt less like they were floating on the water than they were flying through the heavens. But the autumn shore was a cold and dreary place even when the sun was shining, and at least inland he did not have to worry about what Ossë might do next. 

When he finally reached their little house nestled at the base of a grassy hill that rose out of the forest, he let out a sigh. “It’s nice to be home, isn’t it?” he said to his horse. Limral twitched an ear. He patted her neck and dismounted. It was very quiet. He’d never spent more than an hour or two alone in this place before, maybe an afternoon while the twins and Celegorm were out hunting or just wandering through the hills. Now he faced days, perhaps weeks of solitude, except for Limral’s company. He brushed her down and made sure she had everything she needed in the stable, and then went into the house. It was empty and dark, and when he lit a fire in the hearth it felt as though it did little to chase away the chill.

The days passed slowly. He found things to fix around the house, and made preparations for the winter; though this far south it was unlikely to snow much, it would still be cold. He played his flute for hours, and wandered aimlessly through the hills. The only real difference between this and his wanderings after leaving Doriath was that he had a sturdy roof and a real bed to come back to—and somehow that made it worse. 

It was late one morning when that changed. Daeron was still in bed, half-awake but unwilling to rise, when he heard the front door open and the sound of voices. He paid enough attention to count two of them before pulling the blankets up again. The twins were home, and he was sure one of them would come looking sooner or later, but it was so hard that day to make himself care about anything. 

Then the bedroom door opened and Celegorm said, “Daeron?”

Daeron rolled over and sat up. “Lossë?” He regretted using that name immediately, seeing the way that Celegorm went stiff. It was dark in the room, though, and he couldn’t see enough of his expression. “What are you…”

“Where are the twins?”

“…What?”

“Eluréd and Elurín, Daeron. Where are they?”

“Are they not with you?” He still felt stupid and sluggish and sleepy, and now a frisson of fear shot down his spine. He hadn’t really worried about the twins in so long—but it was still a horribly familiar feeling, made worse for the unexpectedness of it. “I asked them to remain behind so you…”

“Well, they didn’t. I found tracks that pointed to them returning here, a little behind you but moving fast.”

“They didn’t. I came back alone, and if they followed they haven’t yet arrived.” Daeron pushed the blankets down and got out of bed. “But I thought I heard—”

“Maglor’s with me.” Celegorm stepped back. “I found him after I left you. I’m going to see if I can pick up the trail again—see where they split off from yours.”

“Lossenol—”

“That’s not my name.”

“But—”

“I’ll be back soon.”

And with that, he was gone. His tone the whole time had been flat and expressionless, and Daeron didn’t know what to do with it. He looked back at the bed, tempted to get back in and hide under the blankets, and then turned away to dress, so at least he wouldn’t have to face Maglor in his nightshirt and with his hair a mess. Still barefoot, and still finishing his braid, he wandered out into the main room, where they had a table for dining in the little kitchen, and a large hearth with comfortable chairs and cushions set before it. From there one could reach the loft where the twins had their bedroom, and the storeroom next to Daeron and Celegorm’s room, and the doors outside, one facing toward the stable and the other leading out into their garden, which was empty and harvested now, ready for the coming winter. He found Maglor standing by the window near the front door with his arms crossed, watching Celegorm ride away. After a moment he turned around. 

When last Daeron had seen Maglor they had both been very different. The Mereth Aderthad was a long way away and a long time ago. Maglor had been bright-eyed and fierce and friendly, with garnets in his hair and laughter on his lips. Daeron had been still struggling to recover from the loss of his father, but the feast—and Maglor’s friendship—had done much to raise his spirits. Even after all that had come afterward, he’d always looked back on those days with a sort of wistful fondness. Now Maglor looked tired, worn out, in patched and slightly ragged clothes, the light in his eyes dimmed though not yet extinguished. “Daeron,” he said. His voice, at least, was unchanged. It was so strange to hear it again now, in such a different place, after so long.

“Maglor,” he said, feeling wary and not bothering to hide it. 

“It’s been a long time.” Maglor seemed to hesitate. His hair was very long, falling in loose and tangled waves over his shoulders and across his face. It made it difficult to read his expression—but he didn’t seem angry. “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “For—well. Everything.”

Daeron blinked at him. “For…oh.” He meant for Doriath, for Sirion, and all the rest of it. “I forgave you a long time ago. And I’m…”

“If you are going to apologize for saving my brother, please don’t. I’m not—I’m so glad you did what you did, Daeron. You saved him in more ways than one and—” Maglor’s voice wavered and he turned away, back toward the window. “I had thought him lost long before I thought him dead. You’ve given him back to me and I don’t know how I am ever going to repay that.”

“Please don’t. You don’t owe me anything for it,” Daeron said. He had been prepared for anger, for blame, for bitterness. Not gratitude. “Please don’t thank me for telling such a lie—”

“I know he’s still upset, but he’ll come around. He just needs time. We’re here because he was afraid that you might be in danger of fading.”

Daeron’s eyes burned and he turned away quickly, going to pick up the kettle to set over the fire that someone had restarted. “I’m fine,” he said without looking back over his shoulder. “Do you…what do you plan to do next?”

Maglor laughed, very quietly, without much mirth. “I haven’t made plans in centuries. I’ve just followed the winds and tides. This is farther inland than I’ve been in decades. It doesn’t matter to me what we do, as long as I can stay with my brother.”

“I would be very glad if you stayed,” Daeron said quietly. “Both of you. I—I have missed you, though maybe that sounds strange to you…”

“It doesn’t. I’ve missed you too. I thought about looking for you once or twice, but I didn’t know where to start, and I didn’t think you would be very pleased to be found by me anyway.”

“Elrond would also be pleased to see you.” Daeron risked a glance then, but Maglor had turned back to the window. “He asked Eluréd and Elurín once to keep an eye out for you.”

“Elrond’s better off with me far away,” Maglor said. 

“I used to say things like that,” Daeron said, “and neither of my twins would hear it.”

“You are not a kinslayer.”

He thought of his dearest friend from Doriath, and a cord around his neck, and a desperate struggle in the woods while the earth shook apart around them, and suppressed a shudder. “That’s debatable.” Daeron went to get out a jar of tea, a sweet-smelling blend of gorse flowers and chamomile. 

Celegorm returned just after the kettle sang—much sooner than Daeron had expected. “They’ve gone north,” he said without preamble as he stepped through the door. “They turned before the mountains, heading toward the Road—a couple of nightingales saw them.”

Daeron set the kettle down hurriedly before he dropped it. “What do you mean they’ve gone north? They can’t have—”

“They did.”

“But—” Daeron stopped, feeling suddenly very cold. “Oh no. They’ve gone to Eregion, rather than Lindon.”

Celegorm spit out a curse. “They’re going to get themselves killed! This is Elurín and the dragon all over again—”

“One of them might have seen something,” Daeron said. “Or—I don’t know, perhaps they spoke to Ossë after I left. We could hear his voice on the wind…”

Celegorm’s face went white at the mention of Ossë, but he didn’t otherwise react. “I don’t care why they did it. We have to go after them and then I’m going to tie them up and—”

“Lossenol—”

“Do not—”

“But—”

“This doesn’t change anything else. Cáno and I are too big to share a saddle with as fast as we need to go, so he’ll have to ride on Limral with you.”

“I…all right.”

“Tyelko,” Maglor said quietly.

“Everything else can wait until after we get the songbirds,” Celegorm snapped, and stormed back outside adding over his shoulder, “No more splitting up!” When the door slammed shut behind him Daeron flinched. 

Maglor sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“He has every right to be furious with me,” Daeron said. “I knew that this would end someday—and that it would probably end badly. Can you put out the fire?” He scooped the unused tea leaves back into the jar as Maglor moved to the fireplace. “I’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

When he emerged from the house, fully dressed and ready to travel quickly, he found Celegorm and Maglor by the stable having what looked like an argument. At least Celegorm seemed angry. He glanced at Daeron and then quickly away, going to mount Lhimmir. Daeron went to where Limral was waiting patiently, and kissed her nose. “You don’t mind carrying both of us, do you?” he asked her. She snorted and nosed at him, and then he looked to Maglor. 

“It’s been rather a long time since I spent so much time in the saddle,” Maglor said as he approached. 

“You’re likely still a better horseman than me,” Daeron replied. And indeed, Maglor sprang lightly into the saddle behind him, and did not seem to have any trouble keeping his balance as they set off, following Celegorm at a swift pace, west and then sharply north, skirting around the White Mountains heading toward the River Angren and the Gap of Calenardhon. 

When they reached the Road they stopped, surveying the burned out plains to the east and the smoke-filled horizon to the north. “Who…?” Maglor began, voice faint. “I know you said you thought it was Sauron, but—”

“This is Sauron,” Daeron said. “This feels like him.” Celegorm glanced at him briefly, expression unreadable. Both of them had had close encounters with Sauron, and Celegorm had the scars on his back to prove it, but Daeron had been the one to battle him—and win, narrowly, thanks to Eluréd. Or at least they had both survived—Daeron still wasn’t sure he could call that fight won. 

As they continued on, still moving as quickly as they dared, Daeron chanted words of concealment, taking the shadows under the cloudy and smoky sky and turning them to his own use. After a little time spent listening, Maglor joined him, his voice rich and overflowing with the power of the tides, strengthening Daeron’s own spells and wrapping around them a kind of freshness that cut through the smoke and brought to mind the Sea. Thus they passed unseen up the North Road, passing the ruin of Tharbad and continuing on toward Ost-in-Edhil, the heart of Eregion—the city of Celebrimbor, son of Curufin. 

Celegorm reined in Lhimmir as they drew near to the city and turned sharply off the road. Daeron followed, and they found at the base of a hill, hidden behind familiar enchantments, the remnants of a hastily made campsite. “They were here,” Celegorm said. “Recently—today.” He dismounted and climbed the hill. Daeron and Maglor followed, and from atop it they saw Ost-in-Edhil. It had once been beautiful, bright and sprawling, with tree-lined avenues and fountains sparkling in the squares, with bright windows of stained-glass and crystal lanterns that lit the night. Now smoke rose in dark pillars, and black banners rippled along what remained of the walls. 

“Oh, Tyelpë,” Maglor breathed beside Daeron. 

“Listen,” Celegorm said. “Do you hear that?”

There was a voice on the wind, coming from the city. Daeron knew that voice, and he recognized the song—it was a song of defiance, of light and life and breaking chains and crumbling walls. “Eluréd!” He started forward, but Celegorm grabbed him just as another voice erupted, nearly drowning out Eluréd’s. “Lossë, let go, that’s—”

“You can’t just go in there without—”

“He’s singing alone!” Daeron struggled against Celegorm’s grip. “He never sings alone! Something’s happened to Elurín—let go, we have to—”

“Wait,” said Maglor, grasping his other arm. “Wait, listen.” 

“No, I—”

“Shut up, Daeron!” Celegorm clapped a hand over his mouth, as Eluréd’s voice rose again. Daeron could not catch all of the words, and could not even begin to guess what Eluréd was trying to do. That song sounded like one of Iarwain Ben-adar’s. “That’s a distraction,” Celegorm said. “He’s keeping Sauron busy.”

Daeron didn’t think he had been this afraid even when facing Sauron himself. His knees gave out and he sagged back against Celegorm, who let go of his mouth to wrap his arms around him fully, holding him up. There was nothing they could do that wouldn’t ruin whatever plans Eluréd and Elurín had laid—there was nothing they could do but listen. Daeron found he couldn’t bear to look, and without thinking he turned to Celegorm, hiding his face in his chest.

The song cut off abruptly—on both sides, before Sauron’s voice rose again, chanting and heavy and horrible, but only for a minute before it too stopped again. Daeron heard himself make some kind of awful noise, and Celegorm’s arms around him tightened even as he started shaking too. The sudden silence was heavy and suffocating, and none of them dared to move. All Daeron could imagine was Eluréd and Elurín in chains, or dead—bloodied and cold with empty staring eyes—and he thought that if anything would kill him now it was that.

Please let them escape please let them be all right please please bring them back to me please I’ll do anything—

Then after a few minutes more Maglor gasped. “Look!”

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“This is a terrible idea.”

“I’ve asked you a dozen times if you have a better one.”

“I don’t, but I also think trying to recreate Tol-en-Gaurhoth is not going to go how we think it will.”

“We’re not recreating Tol-en-Gaurhoth.” Eluréd glared at Elurín. “If anything, we’re recreating Angband.” Between the two of them it was usually Elurín who struggled to contain his temper; Eluréd was more prone to tears than to anger. Now both of them were on edge, feeling the weight of what they were going to attempt—and feeling the stark and conspicuous absence of both of their foster fathers. 

Elurín’s mind kept tripping over the name, though, when he thought of Lossenol—of Celegorm. It was still impossible to reconcile the one who had raised them, who had gently teased them and taught them to use a bow and to fight with a sword and a staff and a knife, who had helped Elurín learn how to use the fury that sometimes bubbled up inside him to his advantage, rather than allowing it to take him over, who was always, always there to lean on—with the one from the tales of their grandparents. The one who had turned Nargothrond against Finrod Felagund and who had then led the attack on Doriath that had turned their entire world upside down and cost them both their parents and their sister. Half of him never wanted to see Celegorm again, and the other half wanted desperately to go back a handful of weeks in time to when they had been a family, whole and happy. 

Or as whole and happy as it was possible for people like them to be. He had always known they were a little broken, all four of them, in different ways. It was just that together they did not feel broken. Now, with the four of them scattered and he and Eluréd about to do something very stupid, he felt both already broken and very fragile, as though he might shatter into a thousand tiny pieces at any moment.

With effort he thrust those feelings down, and tried to focus on what was before them. They crouched behind some rocks atop a hill, looking down at Ost-in-Edhil burning ahead of them, as they had for days now as they worked out what they were going to do and how. The morning before they had seen most of Sauron’s armies march out of it, heading north, and had heard the sound of distant horns. “He’s probably dead,” he said. 

“He’s not,” Eluréd replied. “I just know it. Gorthaur is still there too—he wouldn’t stay without reason.”

Elurín knew it too; it was the kind of knowing that came from outside of him, like hearing a snatch of music on the breeze. It probably was something like that, really—something of their great-grandmother in them answering to the Great Music that still echoed through the world. Eluréd was better at listening to it than he was, but he still heard most of the same things. “All right,” he said, and turned to slide back down the steep hillside to where their horses waited. “Let’s go. You distract him, I find Celebrimbor, and then we hope to outrun all the orcs.”

It was the last part that worried him most. Getting into the city wouldn’t be hard with it now mostly empty—they could sing up disguises for themselves easily enough, and pass unseen by all but the keenest of eyes. He had no doubt either that Eluréd’s distraction would work. They were both much stronger singers now than they had been even during the War of Wrath, and neither of them were wounded or wearied, or weakened by lack of food as Eluréd had been when last he’d come up against Sauron. Elurín even thought that he should be able to find Celebrimbor, wherever he was held, with relative ease. He had songs of seeking, and they had met before, albeit briefly, and so he would be easy to recognize. 

Getting him out, if he was hurt, would be harder. Getting away without being followed by an army of orcs and men and whatever else might be serving Sauron now—that would be nigh impossible. The city was only mostly empty.

Eluréd sang the songs of hiding and of disguise as they made their way, cloaked and hooded, toward the city. No one stopped them when they rode in—indeed, there were very few guards, for most of the army that had remained behind was busy looting and destroying what they could not take. There were others too coming and going from the south, messengers on horseback, and so they passed unremarked. Elurín glanced at Eluréd, who kept his gaze on the street ahead of them, expression grim and set. 

Neither of them were strangers to war, but this was new to Elurín. He did not really remember the sack of Menegroth, and a skirmish in the woods or on the banks of a river was very different from the aftermath of a city put under siege. As they went on he became less and less convinced that there were any survivors, let alone Celebrimbor himself. It was as though Sauron sought to not only reduce the city to rubble but to grind the rubble down into nothing. The hatred in the air was thick, sour-tasting and acrid. 

The only building still mostly intact was the great hall of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, though it was blackened and its windows were broken, and blood stained the steps before it; the great doors were twisted and broken, hanging half-off their hinges. Figures came and went out of them, hurrying and slightly hunched. “He’ll be in there, if he’s anywhere,” Eluréd said quietly. It was silent in the square, though elsewhere there were all kinds of strange and terrible noises. Fires burning. Stones breaking. Raucous laughter. The occasional scream. “You’ll have to find another way in.”

Elurín dismounted and whispered calming and comforting words to Rhawhul, while wrapping him up in shadows to hide him in the remnants of what had once been someone’s lovely house, its roof tiles now shattered on the ground and its walls caved in, its gardens and window boxes broken and burned. “Meet you here,” he said to Eluréd, who nodded as he also slipped off of his horse. They embraced, holding on very tightly for a few moments. “Love you,” Elurín whispered.

“Love you too. Be quick.”

“Be careful.” Not be safe—there was no hope of safety, not there.

Elurín slipped soundlessly around the walls of the hall, and soon found a small window into what looked like a storage room—or at least a room now full of boxes and broken crates, piled around haphazardly. The window was already broken, and he hoisted himself up and in with ease. Then he went to the door and opened it just a crack. The hallway outside was dark and silent. He loosened his knife in its sheath and waited. After some minutes, somewhere else in the building, someone screamed. It was a horrible sound, too much like Celegorm’s scream back on the beach, and Elurín flinched back, nearly losing his balance when his heel hit one of the boxes. He steadied himself, heart pounding, and made himself stay still, stay hidden.

After what felt like a very long time, he heard Eluréd’s voice ringing out, singing one of Iarwain Ben-adar’s songs, bright and merry and impossible to ignore. He didn’t move, hardly dared to breathe, and after a minute he felt a shift in the air. Sauron was in the building, and he had heard. Elurín slipped out of the storeroom and down the corridor. He stopped at a turning and turned to press his palms to the stones. The stones knew who had quarried them and who had shaped them, and when Elurín turned his mind to the thoughts of the earth he nearly recoiled for the screams of the stones under his palms, the horror at the defilement of this city and the crumbling of all that had once been so beautiful, of the blood spilled over them and the deaths of so many who had been brave and clever and strong. Tears pricked his eyes, but he could hear Sauron raise his voice against Eluréd’s, chanting spells of revealing, of finding, of a spider drawing its pray to the center of its web; heard Eluréd’s song change to one Lúthien had sung to them when they were very small children. A dangerous choice, but effective. Finally, underneath the agony, Elurín found what he sought. He took off down the halls at a run, slowing only at corners, and almost always finding them empty. Where he didn’t, he murmured words of sleep, an echo of Lúthien’s long-ago singing, that dropped both orcs and Men before they even knew what was happening. He didn't know how long it would last, but he didn’t dare try to put the entire building to sleep, for Sauron would surely notice. As he went his heart pounded so loud in his ears that he felt certain he would be caught just from that.

Finally, he came not to stairs leading down into basements or anything that might resemble a dungeon, but to a large room, once bright and airy, with high ceilings and wide windows. Now it was hazy with smoke drifting in through the broken glass; a fire burned in the forge, spewing forth even more. Papers were scattered around; furniture was broken. Tools once used to make bright and beautiful things were set out now and bloodied with far worse uses.

And upon the floor, chained to an anvil, covered in blood and with a pool of it slowly spreading across the floor beneath him, was Celebrimbor. Elurín murmured a curse and rushed forward. The chains were bitterly cold when he tried to loosen them, and Celebrimbor barely stirred when he finally found something to break the links. He slumped sideways before Elurín caught him. For a moment he though he was too late, but when he pressed his fingers to Celebrimbor’s throat he felt a pulse, weak but there. He pulled bandages out of his satchel, glad that Eluréd had thought of it, and bound up the worst of the wounds. The freshest one was a cut down the center of his chest, stopping abruptly just past his ribs as though interrupted. Blood immediately soaked through the bandages, but there was no time for anything else, not even songs. Then he somehow got his arms under Celebrimbor’s, and hauled him up, draped over his shoulder. 

Now came the hard part. He went more slowly back to the storeroom he’d found before, afraid that Sauron had noticed the chains breaking, or that he knew someone was sneaking around behind him. But Eluréd was doing his part well, his voice rising and falling, stopping and starting as he led Sauron on a merry chase through the city streets. In the storeroom, Elurín set Celebrimbor down to check on him. “Celebrimbor,” he said, taking his face in his hands. “Can you hear me?” He stirred but didn’t wake. His skin felt feverish; the bandages were entirely soaked with blood. “Just stay with me, all right?” Elurín brushed the hair back from his face, which was smeared with soot and blood but otherwise unhurt—his head and his hands, the only parts of him untouched. “I’m going to get you out of here.” He had no idea if Celebrimbor could hear him. He pulled out more bandages to wrap over the ones already there, working as quickly as he could.

Then he heard footsteps in the hall outside, and when he looked he realized that blood had dripped onto the floor—had left a trail right to them. His own blood ran cold, and he grabbed his knife, rising just as the doorknob started to turn. He reached the door as it opened and barely got out of the way of the sword that came through ahead of the guard. He grabbed his arm and yanked, finding a gap in his armor and thrusting his own knife home before either of them could do more than grunt. Slowly, he knelt, lowering the body to the ground, before pulling his knife free. Blood flowed out and began to pool on the floor. Elurín left him blocking the door, and shoved a few boxes in front of it as well, and then turned back to Celebrimbor. With effort, he hoisted him onto the windowsill, and somehow got out himself without knocking either of them to the ground. His heart thudded against his ribs, and it was hard to breathe. He kept thinking that he wanted his fathers, and then tried to push those thoughts away, telling himself that he didn’t, that it was far better for Daeron to be at home and safe, and that Celegorm wasn’t his father, not really—that when they were out of there and Celebrimbor was safe there would have to be a reckoning. 

He didn’t want there to be a reckoning. He didn’t know what he wanted—he only knew that everything had changed and everything he had once thought certain had turned out to have been built on a foundation of shifting sands. And somehow that had led him here.

There was no one outside, so Elurín dropped to the ground, and pulled Celebrimbor after him. He staggered and lost his balance under the weight of him, his knee striking the cobblestones painfully, but he heaved himself up again. Just to the horses. One step at a time. Then they could make a break for it, trusting to speed rather than secrecy. 

Eluréd was on the other side of the square when Elurín finally made it to where they’d hidden their horses. Others had come to see what was happening, but no one moved to interfere. Sauron stood on the steps of the hall, a tall figure shrouded in shadows, his face hidden from Elurín’s view. Rhawhul and Mithrenvos stamped and shook their heads as Elurín reached them, still calm enough but increasingly nervous with the power swirling through the air. It took all of Elurín’s strength to get Celebrimbor into the saddle, and then he only just managed to pull himself up afterward. As he did he whistled like a lark, and a second later Eluréd’s voice faltered, as though he were suddenly weakening. Sauron laughed. It was a terrible sound, and Elurín shivered. Celebrimbor made a soft, pained sound. For another minute Eluréd played at pretending to be struggling on, trying to win whatever battle Sauron thought was being waged. As he did he moved, carefully, through the shadows and the haze of smoke that shrouded the streets, before his voice broke entirely. Sauron’s voice boomed out, and Elurín cringed. The horses did not panic, but it was a near thing. Eluréd sprang out of the shadows and scrambled into the saddle, breathing hard. It hadn't all been an act. “Go, go!” he gasped, and Elurín urged Rhawhul forward. They charged down the street, and if Sauron didn’t realize what they had taken, he realized very quickly that some kind of trick had been played. His voice chased after them, but he was just a few seconds too slow, and their horses, gifts from the horsemen who dwelled in the northern vales of the Anduin, were swift and surefooted, and even more eager than they were to be away from that place.

They finally escaped the city, charging past some orcs near the gates who tripped over themselves in their surprise, and headed south, toward the hills where they’d stopped to make their plans. Elurín looked over his shoulder and saw activity erupting around the walls and gates, but no one gave immediate chase. They didn’t know yet what had been done, what had been stolen out from under Sauron’s very nose. It was far too soon to celebrate—but he looked at Eluréd, who was bent forward over Mithrenvos’ neck, grey-faced with exhaustion, but also grinning, and felt incredulous laughter bubble up in his chest. 

It wasn’t over yet. But they’d done it. 

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No, no nononono— 

Celegorm couldn’t breathe. The smoke in the air took him back to the Dagor Bragollach, to Himlad burning around him, to that frantic flight south—he’d been thinking of it all the time they’d been making their way north, since there had been precious little conversation, all three of them preoccupied with fear of discovery and fear of what they’d find, and no room for anything else that needed to be said. He knew he was now holding on too tight to Daeron, but couldn’t make himself loosen his grip. It was impossible to tell what was happening in the city, where Eluréd or Elurín were. Where Celebrimbor might be. Please be safe, please be safe, please get out. If there had been a way to escape before the city was overrun, surely Celebrimbor would have taken it. He’d escaped Himlad, long ago. He’d escaped Nargothrond. He’d survived the War of Wrath and the breaking of Beleriand. Surely he could survive this too. He had to. They all had to. If he lost Eluréd and Elurín and Celebrimbor before he could even try to speak to them again—

“Look!” Maglor exclaimed, grasping Celegorm’s shoulder and pointing at the road. Two horses—familiar horses, with familiar riders—raced down it, heading south toward the hill where they stood. 

For a moment Celegorm thought he was going to faint. Then he sucked in a breath and grabbed Daeron’s shoulders. “Daeron, look!” He turned him, and Daeron cried out, falling to his knees, half-sobbing in relief as he covered his face with his hands. “But what’s that—”

Elurín spotted them and called out as he and Eluréd veered off the road and came around the hill, halting as Celegorm and Daeron half-slid, half-ran down the slope to meet them, Maglor following a few steps behind. “What are you doing here?” Elurín demanded.

“What are you doing?” Celegorm retorted. “You just charged into—”

“We had to find Celebrimbor,” said Elurín, and then Celegorm looked—really looked—at the figure slumped in the saddle in front of him. Behind him Maglor made a soft sound like he’d been punched in the chest. 

Daeron had gone to Eluréd, who looked like he was ready to faint himself, swaying in the saddle, though he was aware enough to reach for him. Celegorm went to Elurín, resting a hand on his knee as he looked at Celebrimbor. He was a mess, covered in blood beneath hastily applied bandages that were already soaked through, and shivering under the cloak that Elurín had wrapped around him. “Are you all right, birdie?” Celegorm asked quietly, looking up into Elurín’s face. It was hard to read. He did not seem pleased to see any of them. 

Yet he had Celebrimbor in the saddle in front of him.

“I’m fine,” said Elurín. “I had the easy task. But we can’t linger—he’ll find out what we’ve done soon enough.”

“Go home,” Daeron said. He’d recovered himself, and now spoke calmly and firmly, though his voice still shook a little, and there were still traces of tears on his face, his braid half-unraveled around his shoulders. “You need to get home. When you’ve recovered a little, sing more power into the Girdle. It will keep you hidden, even from him.”

“What do you mean you? What will you be doing?” Elurín asked. 

“Distracting the Enemy. He’ll recognize my voice—he’ll take my bait, as he took Eluréd’s. I’ll lead him north, maybe, or west, and—”

“No!” Elurín cried. “This is why we didn’t tell you! You can’t just leave—”

“—and when I’ve managed to lose him, I’ll make my own way home,” Daeron said, still remarkably calm, as though he hadn’t been uncontrollably frantic atop the hill just a few minutes before. “Just as I once promised you.”

“It will be more effective with two of us,” Maglor said suddenly.

Celegorm spun around. “Maglor, you can’t!”

“You go with them. I’ll stay with Daeron. Between the two of us we can take on Sauron. He was only Morgoth’s lieutenant—”

“He’s stronger now,” Eluréd said. He pushed himself up in the saddle with effort from where he’d been almost lying on Mithrenvos’ neck, face grey with exhaustion. “There’s something different about him. You can’t—you can’t fight him. Even both of you at once.”

“We won’t,” said Daeron, squeezing Eluréd’s hand. “We’ll do just what you did, birdie. But we can’t stay and argue about it. You need to go. Stay together.” Daeron looked at Celegorm as he spoke.

“No!” Celegorm said. “No, we all stay together, and—”

“And we’ll all be followed, then,” Maglor said. He came to Celegorm’s side, and reached for Celebrimbor, who hadn’t stirred through any of this. 

“They’re cold—” Elurín began when Maglor reached for the manacles still on Celebrimbor’s wrists. But Maglor just murmured a word and they snapped open, falling into his hands with a heavy clink. Celebrimbor’s wrists beneath them were red and bloody, the skin rubbed raw. If the metal was as cold as Elurín warned, Maglor didn’t seem to feel it.

At that moment an enormous boom! echoed over the hills around them. The ground shuddered; the horses whinnied, and Daeron had to lunge forward to grab Lhimmir and Limral's reins to keep them from fleeing. Eluréd and Elurín retained control, but only with effort. This was what woke Celebrimbor, at least a little. He mumbled something, turning his face into Elurín’s shoulder. 

“He’s found what we’ve done,” Elurín said. “We need to go.”

Celegorm looked at Maglor, who wrapped an arm around him and kissed his temple. “I’ll be fine,” he said softly. “We’ll all be fine, but not if we don’t move now. Stay with Tyelpë. I love you, and I’ll come back to you—nothing in the world could keep me away now.”

“You’d better.” Celegorm released him only reluctantly. He stepped back as Daeron moved to say a quick farewell to Elurín; when he finished Celegorm caught his arm. “You keep that promise, Daeron,” he said in a low voice. “Don’t you dare not come back to them.”

“You’re hurting me,” Daeron said quietly, holding himself very still.

“Good.” But he released him immediately. “Just—just come back.” He couldn’t stop being angry if Daeron went and got himself killed. He couldn’t even start to try to make sense of everything that had happened until they were all back together somewhere safe. 

“Lossë,” Daeron said as Celegorm turned away. He’d answered to that name for so long that turning around was automatic, and as he did Daeron threw his arms around him, holding on more tightly than he ever had before. Celegorm’s arms came up to hold him in return before he could think to stop himself; without thinking he lowered his head, hiding his face in Daeron’s hair. If this was the last time— “I promise I’ll come back to you,” Daeron whispered. “I’m so sorry.” He held on for only a few seconds, and then he let go, leaving Celegorm feeling horribly empty and bereft. 

“Maglor, take Lhimmir,” he said, hearing his voice shake a little and not knowing what to do about it. “You both need to move fast.” Maglor nodded. “Eluréd, I’ll ride with you.” He swung himself into the saddle behind him, and wrapped an arm around Eluréd’s waist. It wasn’t just that Maglor needed a mount of his own—Eluréd looked like he might fall without someone to hold onto him. “I’ve got you, birdie,” Celegorm murmured.

“I know, Atya,” Eluréd sighed, leaning back against him. 

“Be safe,” Daeron said to them, and then he and Maglor were gone, charging away back up the road, north and west. After a minute Daeron’s voice rose, louder and stronger than Celegorm had ever heard it, almost shocking in its defiance against the shadow that hung over Ost-in-Edhil. Listening to him then, one might never guess that he had been rendered speechless and almost silent with terror on top of the hill. Having now chosen his course of action and committed to it, he seemed to have forgotten his fear.

“Come on,” said Elurín, and urged Rhawhul forward, moving away from the road, more east than south. Celegorm followed, continually looking back over his shoulder. They pushed the horses as hard and as far as they could, and made their camp long after sunset. It was cold, but they did not dare risk a fire. Celegorm helped Eluréd down and tended to the horses, and then went to kneel by Elurín, who was taking a closer look at Celebrimbor’s wounds. “It’s very bad,” he said quietly, without looking up, “but I think he will live. If we can get him home.”

“Elurín, will you help me sing protections?” Eluréd asked. 

“I’ll do it. You rest.” Elurín finished tying off the last bandage and went to pace around the camp. In the distance they could hear the howling of wolves. Sauron was no fool. They just had to hope that he had spared only a few to send south, and that most would follow after Daeron. And that Daeron and Maglor together would be able to evade them.

Celegorm remained where he was, and rested his hand on Celebrimbor’s forehead. He couldn’t tell if he hadn’t woken because Elurín had ensured it, or if he just couldn’t. “Oh, Tyelpë,” he sighed. “I’m so sorry.” Celebrimbor still didn’t wake, but he turned his head slightly, into Celegorm’s touch.

Eluréd slept, but neither Celegorm nor Elurín did. They remained watchful and tense, listening to the sounds of pursuit in the distance, which veered off toward the west sometime late in the night. “They’ll think we’ve gone west—even without Daeron and Maglor’s distractions,” Elurín murmured after a while. “West toward Lindon.”

“Hope so,” Celegorm murmured. The tension between the two of them, he and Elurín, was so thick he felt like they would both suffocate under it. Eluréd had not really looked him in the face either before he had fallen asleep, but that might have been because of the same feelings, or just because he had been too tired. He’d also still called him atya, but Celegorm thought that was just old habit. “Elurín—”

“Not here.” Elurín still didn’t look at him. “Not yet.”

“Can I at least ask why you went to Ost-in-Edhil in the first place?”

“Someone had to get him out, and we were the only ones who could.”

“But without telling Daeron—”

“He would have tried to stop us.”

“With good reason.”

“I know. That’s why we did not tell him, and why we did not wait for you. Eluréd followed after you, you know—we knew you’d found your brother, that you were all right. We waited until you returned for your things, and left when we heard you and Maglor make your plans to return home. We wouldn’t have just left otherwise—but we knew you’d try to stop us, or insist on coming with us, and it wouldn’t have worked if you had.”

He hadn’t known that Eluréd had followed him. He should have noticed—but most of that day felt like a blur, now, and after he’d looked up to find Maglor standing on the beach in front of him he hadn’t had room to think about anything else, and even afterward he hadn’t been as watchful as he should have been—obviously, since he hadn’t seen the signs of them still being nearby, and then had missed seeing where Eluréd and Elurín had turned away from Daeron’s path. The agony of remembering was still fresh inside him, but he could look back now and see that without it he never would have turned south—he would have continued on north toward Lindon and Maglor would have stayed where he was, and neither of them would have ever known just how close they’d come to one another. Again.

And without that remembering, Eluréd and Elurín would not have gone off on their own. Celebrimbor would still be in Sauron’s hands, suffering—dying.

Maybe this was what Ossë had meant—though Celegorm wasn’t really prepared to give him that kind of credit. Not when the memory of his lungs filling up with water was still so fresh.

They didn’t speak again that night. In the morning Elurín managed to get Celebrimbor to drink a little water, and then they went on—this time Celegorm rode with Celebrimbor, and Eluréd and Elurín shared Rhawhul’s saddle. Wolves howled behind them, but Elurín led them through the woods in a winding course, swiftly heading south, staying close to the mountains, using all the tricks both Daeron and Celegorm had taught both Eluréd and Elurín to throw off pursuit and to hide their passing. It was a longer route than the one they’d all taken north, but they had no choice—to take the road was to be seen, whatever they did to hide themselves. They just had to hope that Celebrimbor would make it.

As the days passed, blurring together into a haze of exhaustion and fear, Celebrimbor woke a few times, but never for very long; he was in too much pain to do anything, even to make much noise. Celegorm hated to see him like this, hated that they had such a long way to go, and it was with enormous relief that he recognized at last, after far too many days of travel, the break in the southern arm of the White Mountains, and the path that led to their little house in the hills, and an even greater relief to finally feel the Girdle Daeron had sung up close in around them like Daeron’s own arms, warm and familiar and safe. They all breathed a sigh as soon as they felt it. 

At home, Celegorm dismounted, and carefully slipped Celebrimbor out of the saddle. Eluréd came to take Mithrenvos’ reins, and Elurín held open the door. “Your bed?” he asked. 

“Yes,” Celegorm said, and in just a few minutes they had Celebrimbor in the bedroom, a fire going, and water fetched to heat. Elurín and Eluréd were both skilled in healing, far more skilled than Celegorm, so he just did what they told him and then tried not to get in the way. There were wounds to stitch and songs to sing, and after a while Celebrimbor stirred, crying out hoarsely, struggling to open his eyes until Elurín managed to calm him and sing him back to sleep. 

This was all far too reminiscent, in some ways, of Celegorm’s own rescue from Doriath. He didn’t remember it, but he knew that an Ent had carried him from Menegroth to Ossiriand, crossing the Gelion, all in winter—and he still didn't know how he’d survived that trek. It had left him with a multitude of scars and some injuries that had never fully healed, even besides Dior’s curse. And that had just been battle wounds and a cave falling in. This was different. This was worse. 

He caught himself thinking then that if this was like his own rescue it was even more like Maedhros’, and had to escape the house and flee into the woods to be sick, all that awful grief welling up again—not just for what Maedhros had suffered in Angband, but how his life had ended. And they had been so close—Celegorm had seen him across a battlefield, and had turned away on purpose. From his brother. He had been right there in the camp when the last two Silmarils had been taken—he just hadn’t understood what it was that made him want to get up and go, and so he’d let Daeron keep him away. And Maedhros had died, and Maglor had been lost.

And now his nephew had nearly died and might never fully heal from this ordeal the same way Maedhros had never fully healed from his, and Celegorm hadn’t been there. Again. He hadn’t even wanted to be there because he hadn’t known. 

“Lossë?” Elurín had come out to find him. Celegorm straightened, spit the lingering taste of bile out of his mouth into the leaves, and tried to catch his breath. “Are you all right?” Elurín asked from behind him. 

“No. How’s Tyelpë?”

“Sleeping. Real sleep, this time. I don’t know when he’ll wake—but he will wake.” Elurín waited until Celegorm turned to face him, and then said, “I don’t think I can ever call you—Celegorm.”

“That’s…that’s fine. And if you don’t want to call me anything, if you want me to leave—”

“I didn’t say that. I don’t know what I want. It’s—I can’t—you can’t be the same person. I can’t make it work in my head, and I don’t…”

“I’m sorry,” Celegorm said. “Elurín, I’m so sorry.”

“Is it true, though? I know what all the histories say, what the tales and songs say, but did you—my father…”

“Yes. Or—he triggered the cave-in, I think, but I had already delivered a killing blow.”

“And he’s the one that cursed you to forget.”

“He—yes. I don’t remember Doriath very clearly, but I remember that.” Elurín nodded once. He was pale and exhausted and Celegorm could see how much all of this was hurting him. “I’m sorry,” he said again, wishing there was something else he could say, wishing his apologies didn’t sound so meaningless. 

“If you hadn’t forgotten…what would you have done? In Ossiriand?”

“I wouldn’t have hurt you, Elurín.”

“Because you would not have been able to, or because you would not have wanted to? You told me once that you thought you had been so angry that it crowded out everything else, and—”

“That was true. But I—even at my worst I would not have hurt a child.”

“I don’t know if I believe you.”

“That’s…I deserve that.” If he were to be completely honest, he didn’t know if he believed himself either. He didn’t know what he would have done if he had woken up alone and in pain and still knowing who he was and what he thought he wanted, with a stranger and two children bearing Dior’s face trapped in the flet with him. But he wanted it to be true. He wanted to have always been who he was as Lossenol, or to have stayed the way he had been as Tyelkormo in his youth far away in Treelit Valinor, to have never been what Celegorm the Cruel became.

“I don’t know what to do.” Elurín dragged his sleeve over his eyes. “Just—come back to the house please. Please don’t leave when Daeron comes back.”

“I won’t.”

“Promise you won’t.”

“I promise, birdie. I’ll stay until you send me away.”

When he stepped inside, Eluréd rose from his seat by the fire and came to wrap his arms around him, hiding his face in Celegorm’s shoulder. Elurín disappeared back into the bedroom. “Please don’t run away again,” Eluréd whispered.

“I won’t, Eluréd. I wasn’t now, and I’m sorry that I did before on the beach.” Celegorm kissed his temple. “You should get some sleep.” They were all tired, but Eluréd had had the harder part of the rescue, had had to again endure Sauron’s full attention, and was still recovering.

“Can’t. I keep dreaming, and Daeron isn’t here to sing them away.”

He fell asleep anyway, there by the fire with his head on Celegorm’s lap. Celegorm sat and stared at the flames and listened to the occasional rustle from the bedroom where Elurín sat vigil over Celebrimbor, and to the wind whistling around the corners of the house. He thought of Daeron and Maglor, and hoped they were all right. He thought of Celebrimbor’s broken body and prayed for the first time in centuries. Please let him be all right. He doesn’t deserve this. Not Tyelpë. He’s always been the best of us. Please let him live. Please, please… 

And then he thought of his other brothers, all of them dead, out of reach in Mandos. He wondered if Vairë had woven his fate into her tapestries, if they knew what he had been doing, where he had been, if they’d even bothered to look. He wondered if Curufin was watching even then—if he knew what had been done to his son, if he knew that neither Celegorm nor Maglor had been there to protect him when he needed it most. He remembered when they had received word of Nargothrond’s fall—of the battle that killed Orodreth, and of the city taken over by Glaurung. They hadn’t known then that Celebrimbor had made it out alive, and Curufin had gone still and silent for days, and then he’d locked himself in his forge to work until he couldn’t lift his arms anymore; they’d all thought he would fade away, until word came at last that a remnant had made it to the Mouths of Sirion and Gil-galad on Balar, and that Celebrimbor was with them. And now…

It wasn’t a good idea to dwell on those thoughts, he knew. He would suffocate under the weight of all his failures if he did, and he couldn’t afford to. He didn’t want to die—and not only because he did not want to come to Mandos and have to face all of his brothers there. Or his father. Or—others. Maglor had been glad to see him, but Maglor had also been alone for centuries. Whatever else he was, Celegorm wasn’t stupid—there would be a reckoning eventually, when the shock of it all finally wore off, or when they were finally all somewhere safe. It would be ugly on all sides. He just needed to keep it together until then—until Sauron was driven back to his dark lair somewhere in the southeast and he could be certain that Celebrimbor would be safe. Then he’d face whatever was coming for him, and he’d take it, and—well. He couldn’t guess what would happen after that. Probably nothing good.

He breathed a sigh and stroked Eluréd’s hair when he murmured something in his sleep. “I’m here,” he said, and Eluréd sighed, relaxing again. 

Was Dior somewhere in Mandos, watching, or had he passed beyond the Circles of the World upon his death? Could he see what was happening, who had raised his sons in his absence? Could Nimloth? Did Elwing know who her brothers had stayed in Middle-earth for?

Elurín emerged from the bedroom late in the evening, and Celegorm went in to take his place. In the soft candlelight Celebrimbor looked even worse, his bruises livid and the skin underneath them ashen. “I’m so sorry, Tyelpë,” Celegorm whispered. He rested his hand over Celebrimbor’s, over the bandages encircling his wrists. Celebrimbor, of course, didn’t answer. He didn’t even move except for the shallow rise and fall of his chest. 

It occurred to Celegorm only then to wonder what it was Sauron had wanted. And to wonder where Gil-galad was, why no help had come to Ost-in-Edhil, what had started the war in the first place. Well, that last question was easy enough to answer—Sauron sought to take his old master’s place. But why now?

The night passed slowly. Celegorm paced and tried once or twice to nap, but he was restless, and so tired that he couldn’t sleep even if someone didn't need to be awake for Celebrimbor. Then, as dawn started to break and pale light came through the window, Celebrimbor stirred. Celegorm went to his side, reaching for his hand—and then hesitated, remembering suddenly the look of horror on Maglor’s face when they’d first seen each other on the beach. It should not be him there when Celebrimbor woke. Even if he was in his right mind—it would be too much of a shock.

He didn’t open his eyes, though. He just made a soft, pained sound, head lolling on the pillow. Celegorm leaned down to kiss his forehead, and then retreated. “He’s waking, I think,” he said to the twins, who both looked like they had just rolled out of their own beds, and were half-heartedly making breakfast. “I should not be the one there when he does.”

“He’ll panic no matter who’s there, probably,” Elurín pointed out.

“Yes, but—he thinks that I’m dead.” Not to mention the last time they’d seen one another. Celegorm remembered in a strange, distant sort of way how angry he’d been, though he didn’t think he had been surprised, exactly, when Celebrimbor had disavowed them and refused to leave Nargothrond. It all felt now like it had happened to someone else. There was no anger left—like the fire inside of him that had ignited with the Bragollach had been doused, somewhere between Menegroth and Ost-in-Edhil, leaving him cold and empty. But he had no idea what Celebrimbor would think now. “He’ll mistake one of you for Elrond, at worst. But if he wakes up to me…”

“I’ll sit with him.” Elurín slipped past Celegorm without looking at him, disappearing into the bedroom.

“You should sleep,” said Eluréd after a moment. “Take my bed for now. Later we need to speak of our winter stores.”

“I’ll go hunting later, after I’ve slept. Maybe someone can make the trip to Edhellond in the next few weeks, if it’s safe.” It wasn’t too far, and the journey would be a quick and easy one if the weather held. Sauron seemed to be concentrating all of his attention on the north; hopefully he had left the southern havens alone.

“Atya,” Eluréd said as Celegorm turned away. He froze; that was deliberate, not the name just slipping out through a haze of exhaustion. “I’m not going to stop calling you that. It’s still true.”

“I don’t think your real father would approve, Eluchilion,” Celegorm said. 

“I love my father, and I miss my father, and sometimes I hate my father,” Eluréd said, quiet but blunt. Celegorm turned to stare at him in astonishment. “If I wanted to, I could name ways in which every single adult in our lives hurt us or failed us when we were young, except perhaps Daeron. There is nothing simple about what happened then or who we are now, and many things can be true at the same time. I can resent what my parents chose to do even as I understand there were forces moving in the world far bigger than any of us, and I can hate what you did and love you for all that you’ve done since. I can wish things had been different and understand why they could not have been. I am a contradiction, just in the fact that I was born—it is not so hard for me to hold more of them in my heart. But I don’t care whether Dior Eluchíl would approve of my choices now. Nor Nimloth, nor Thingol, nor anyone else. They have not lived my life. They do not know me. I chose to love you when I was six years old and Elurín and I gave you the name Lossenol, and I chose to call you my father when I was ten, and I choose to keep doing so now, and if no one else can see that that is not a rejection of Dior or Nimloth, then that is their affair. I don’t care.”

“Eluréd…” Celegorm heard his voice break. He didn’t want to start crying again; he felt as though he should have run out of tears by now. “I love you. Both of you. That I remember who I am, now—that doesn’t change the fact that I love you more than anything.”

“I know, Atya Lossë.”

“But it changes everything else.”

“Not everything. And not for the worse—not if we don’t let it.” 

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Everything hurt. As he drifted in and out of consciousness, Celebrimbor was vaguely aware of horses, of movement, of broken ribs grinding together, of cold and wind—and then of warm hands on his face, and familiar voices speaking to him. The voices, he knew, were a dream—his father was dead, and all of his uncles. If Annatar—if Sauron thought that he would be lulled by such tricks, he would be disappointed. 

But when he woke fully, the pain had lessened, and he was—he was warm? He was in a bed, tucked under soft blankets, his wounds bandaged. The smell of athelas hovered in the air, and sunshine unfiltered by smoke came through the window, framed by climbing ivy, autumn red. The bedroom was comfortable, lived-in and neat, the bed wide and piled with pillows and soft blankets. A bowl of water sat on the small table next to it, the water greenish and with a few wilted leaves floating on top. 

Carefully, he sat up, ignoring how much it hurt. He looked down to see bandages wrapped around his wrists and his arms, around his ribs to hold the broken ones in place—but his hands remained unharmed. There was relief in that but also a kind of horror. Anna—Sauron—had been saving that particular torment, hadn’t yet wanted him irreparably broken. Someone had dressed him in a loose fitting nightshirt. Through the bedroom door he heard muffled voices, and some other sounds that were so normal and domestic that he almost felt dizzy. He didn’t understand how he had gotten here, where here even was, what had happened. 

With effort, he got himself out of bed, and on unsteady feet he crossed the room to the door. Even that handful of steps over soft woven rugs scattered across the smooth wooden floor left him aching and struggling to catch his breath. But he opened the door anyway, dreading what he would find but needing to know. If this was really some illusion, or…

The door opened into a wider room, with a large hearth at one end, and comfortable chairs and cushions set around it. A pair of cloaks hung on pegs near the door, and a bow and quiver was set on the floor beneath them. One dark-haired figure knelt by the hearth, just tossing a new log onto the flames. Sparks flew up as it landed. The room smelled of dried herbs and burning wood, and fresh bread. Near the door another pair of figures stood, one stripping off a pair of gloves as he said, “…dressed it, but I’ll need your help to finish—” He broke off, looking over to see Celebrimbor. 

The world tilted. Celebrimbor didn’t hit the floor only because the one who’d been tending the fire caught him in time.

“Tyelpë,” Celegorm said—Celegorm who was dead. Who had left Nargothrond without ever looking back, not even once. Who now stood framed by sunlight coming through the door behind him, half his face hidden behind a fall of silver hair, worn loose instead of his usual tight hunter’s braids. “You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

Hysterical laughter bubbled up in his throat and he choked on it. “You shouldn’t be alive,” he said, and watched his uncle flinch back. That wasn’t right. Celegorm never flinched. He was never afraid—when Celebrimbor had been a child, Celegorm had been full of fearless laughter. Later, in Beleriand, he had been full of fearless rage. “What—what kind of trick—” 

“It’s no trick,” said the one holding him up, and there was something about the way he said it, something about the way the words felt, that hurt in an awful, horribly familiar way.

“Don’t—no, no—Ann—it—I won’t—” He tried to pull away but none of his limbs wanted to work. His uncle had always been fearless, but fear was all that Celebrimbor knew now, and he could feel it clouding all of his thoughts until there was nothing left except I won’t tell you you’ll never find them they’re out of your reach you can’t ever have them—

Someone murmured something in his ear, and everything melted away into warm darkness.

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Maglor did not look back as he urged Celegorm’s horse after Daeron’s. Lhimmir responded eagerly, tossing his head and swiftly lengthening his stride. In one hand he held the manacles from Celebrimbor’s wrists, the metal unnaturally cold, and as they charged up the road he threw one ahead, just before following Daeron as he veered west and north. Daeron lifted his voice, a sudden defiant chant against the shadow ahead of them. Maglor could feel when it was perceived by the Enemy. He did not yet join his voice to Daeron’s. Sauron would probably expect Daeron to be nearby, if he had recognized Eluréd and Elurín. He would not expect Maglor, and he didn’t know yet when would be the best time to reveal himself. 

He dropped the second manacle some distance from the first, breaking away from Daeron momentarily to head in a more southward direction as though they had split up, before finding a stream to ride through back north until he left it to follow the sound of Daren’s voice. Hopefully it would be enough of a hint—something small and easily overlooked, perhaps, but if it was found all the more believable for it. Sauron would not believe that Daeron would call attention to himself if he intended to stay with Celebrimbor and the twins—but that they would all head west, Maglor hoped, would be believable. Lindon was where they would find protection, where anyone with sense would try to take a wounded Celebrimbor. 

That was the kind of thinking Celegorm was better at, Maglor thought, looking back to see movement behind them as he finally caught back up to Daeron. Celegorm would have been able to lay a better false trail. If they were lucky, Maglor’s poorer attempt would just confuse their pursuers further. At least it wouldn’t point them direct south. “They’ve seen us!” he called to Daeron, who had stopped singing to catch his breath.

“Good,” Daeron replied, and glanced back himself. He had been nearly overcome with fear outside of Ost-in-Edhil, but now his dark eyes were hard, his expression set. “Can you hide us? But do it badly?”

Maglor nodded and as Daeron turned more directly northward he began to weave his own enchantments, trying to mimic what he had seen of the twins’ and of Daeron’s in taking the shadows around them for his own use. He did not have to try to do it badly—he found them slippery and hard to grasp. His own ways of hiding himself were different, and his tongue tripped over these new songs. In the end he was just good enough; the pursuit continued, and they stayed just far enough ahead of it that they could hide when they really needed to and not be caught, only to emerge for Daeron to taunt Sauron again with songs that brought sunlight piercing through the clouds, scattering the orcs with their bright beams; Maglor sang more quietly, unheard by any but Daeron, calling up winds to chase away the smoke and bring fresh air rushing through the burned out woods to scatter the ashes and lift the hearts of anyone else who might be out there whether they were fighting or fleeing. They pushed the horses as hard as they dared, and stopped for only a few hours at a time, shrouded in shadows and smoke as they passed through the burned and burning remnants of once mighty forests. 

During one such rest, after days of the chase, when they had reached the edges of the devastation, Daeron looked around, grief in his eyes. “I wandered these woods for years, long ago,” he murmured, sitting with knees drawn up and arms wrapped around his legs, looking strangely small for one who could wield such power in his voice. In the distance orcs called and wolves howled. Sauron was somewhere not far away, but his sight was not yet so keen that he could pierce Daeron’s shadows. “They were deep and dark and cool, ancient even then, and so beautiful.”

“What drove you here?” Maglor asked. “Why did you leave Doriath?”

“I tried to follow Lúthien. The Girdle turned me around and I emerged from Region in the east rather than Neldoreth in the west, and…” Daeron fell silent. Maglor waited, and listened to the horses breathing and to the whispering sound of ashes blowing over the ground. The air smelled heavily of smoke. “I was not well, in those days. I—well, you knew me a little, you must have seen something of it, the melancholy I’ve never really been able to shake.”

“I remember,” said Maglor. He could see it at that moment, in fact—had seen it when Daeron had come out of his bedroom, looking exhausted and half-afraid of what he would find even there in his own home. “The weight of it seemed to lift a little at the Mereth Aderthad.”

“It was your friendship that did it. I did truly enjoy our time together there, as I had not expected to.”

“I did too. And—I’m sorry. For the secrecy and…”

“I know.” Daeron dropped his gaze to the ground. “I was still mourning my father, at the feast. Both my parents really, but he had only just died a few years before. But that all got worse and worse, especially after the Dagor Bragollach. We lost so many of our people, and—one of my dearest friends was abroad in Dorthonion when the fires broke out. And then came the whole business with Beren, and I acted foolishly, and…I know now that I was wrong, but it seemed to me then that I would not find much of a welcome if I returned. So I didn’t.”

Maglor knew what that was like. He didn’t know what to say in response, though. With Celegorm it had been easier, because even now he still knew his brother. He had never really known Daeron, even if it had felt as though they knew one another so well so quickly at the feast. And he was still too used to solitude—to having nothing but the sand and water to speak to.

“Thank you for coming with me,” Daeron said after a moment. “You didn’t have to.”

“Of course I did.”

“Celebrimbor is your nephew—you could have gone with them.”

“I will be of more use to him—and to them—here with you. I have gotten very good at remaining hidden, over the years, even if I’m still not quite as good as you.”

“I have always been good at it,” said Daeron. “But—you didn’t have to do that either, you know. Stay hidden. It has been a long time since we were last in Lindon, but I would not be surprised to learn that Elrond still searches for you.”

Maglor looked away. He didn’t want to speak of Elrond. Even forewarned by Celegorm, just seeing Eluréd and Elurín had hurt, like glimpsing Elrond and Elros again. Up close there were plenty of differences, of course, but they had the same eyes. “Elrond is far better off under Gil-galad’s protection than he ever was under mine,” he said after the silence started to weigh on him. “And by now—I would only be an unwelcome intrusion. I used to go sometimes to the borders of Lindon, to sit in taverns or wander the edges of harbors and listen to news. I never heard that he looked for me, but I know he’s well. I know Elros lived long and well and died—died in peace. That’s enough.”

“We both know it isn’t,” Daeron said quietly.

“Maybe it wouldn’t be for you, but you know what I’ve done.”

“So does Elrond. He’s known all along—Eluréd and Elurín haven’t, and they have to grapple with it all now, but that’s not their fault, or Lossë’s.”

“Why do you call him that? Lossë? Was it because you met in winter?”

“The twins gave him the name Lossenol,” said Daeron, “a few days after he woke up without remembering his own. I thought then that the forgetting came from his injuries, and that he would start to remember himself sooner or later—sooner, I feared. But the twins—even at six years old they just knew things, sometimes, and they insisted from the start that the four of us were meant to come to that place at that time. They were right, I suppose—I don’t think any of us would have survived the First Age otherwise. The nickname Lossë came later, after we started teaching them Quenya. And now—even now, it’s very hard for me to think of him as Celegorm.”

“He has answered to your name for him longer than he was ever Celegorm,” said Maglor. 

“You call him Tyelko.”

“Tyelkormo—his mother-name. And he calls me Cáno, from my father-name Canafinwë.”

Daeron nodded. “And…Curvo, would that have been Curufin?”

“Yes.”

“He used to mumble names in his sleep, sometimes, though less and less as time went on. Curvo is one I heard most often, but I recognize Cáno now too. And Nelyo—I cannot guess who that might be. I did not know, in the beginning, who he was. I guessed, and I was almost certain I was right, but…”

“Nelyo was Maedhros—his father-name was Nelyafinwë. Your silence saved Tyelko’s life,” Maglor said. “I maintain that—but why did you stay silent?”

“I was afraid,” Daeron said after a moment. “Of him—of the Oath. I still thought for a while that he would remember on his own, and until we actually crossed the Ascar that spring, near to the Sarn Athrad, I thought we would part ways—I had told him where Amon Ereb was, and we both half-expected to see your people patrolling up the river. Then—well. Things happened, and he saved my life, and by then the twins had attached themselves to both of us, and at least we were united in wanting to keep them safe above all other things. In time I stopped fearing that he would hurt any of us, should the Oath wake—but I knew it would take him away, back into Beleriand, and losing him like that frightened me even more. He also told me, more than once, that he did not want to remember who he was. He knew enough—that he had been a kinslayer—and he did not want to go back.”

“It sounds as though his forgetting was a blessing,” Maglor said. It hurt, a little, to know that Celegorm had chosen to stay away—but the knowledge that he had been able to make that choice, and the fact that it meant that he was there, now, more than made up for it. 

“He used to think so. I have often thought that the person I know is who he was before ever the Oath was sworn.”

“I don’t know if the Oath can be blamed for all of it. We were all changing for the worse long before the Darkening.”

“Well, the Oath and the war, and I’m sure all kinds of things I am ignorant of. But I could see how it hurt him whenever it stirred—even though he did not understand what was happening. It was such a terrible thing that you all bound yourselves to.”

They both froze at the sound of hoof beats far too close. They passed by, heading west. When it fell quiet again Daeron rose to his feet. “We should go.”

“Where is it you want to lead them?”

“I think we’ve led the Enemy himself far enough away that we should think of making our own escape—south again down the coast, and pray the power of Ulmo helps to hide us.”

“You don’t want to make for Lindon? To tell Gil-galad…?”

“I don’t know where Gil-galad is,” said Daeron. “I would be shocked to learn that he remains in Lindon, and we can’t go searching for him through all of Eriador. But I also think—for now, the fewer who know that Celebrimbor lives, the better. We can’t make further plans until he has recovered. Between the two of us I think we can hide our passage so that even Gorthaur cannot see.”

“Are you sure you want to slip away now?” Maglor asked. “I have not yet revealed—”

“Nor should you. All we meant to do was distract, and we’ve done it.”

“You say we, but I have hardly done anything.” 

“I wouldn’t have gotten this far by myself.” Daeron busied himself with his horse, adjusting a few things on the saddle. “Were I alone I would have no choice but to seek shelter in Lindon. I wouldn’t have had the strength to both call him after me and hide myself from him. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. We aren’t out of danger.”

“Thank you anyway.”

It was harder to make their way toward the coast entirely undetected. They had to balance between moving quickly and moving quietly, and Maglor could feel Sauron putting forth his power to seek for them. His banners bore a great red eye, and now he understood why. They spoke little, except to the horses or to decide where to make camp. They had broken away from the North Road very early on, heading more west than north, crossing over the Gwathló through the marshland north of Tharbad, and eventually they came to the shores of a river, brown and lazy. “This is the Baranduin,” Daeron said. “If we follow it north we come to Goldberry’s country.”

“Who?”

“The River-daughter,” Daeron said, as though that was meant to make things clearer. “But if we follow it south we’ll eventually come to the Sea, and then we can make our way along the coast. You know that land better than I do.”

“I do, and I do not think we should follow the river or the coast—not if we do not want to spend many weeks more in the saddle than we must. The coast is winding and long. If we cut straight south from here, if I remember right, we should reach the Sea near to the mouths of the Gwathló, and from there we can follow the shore to the Angren—and then we can follow the same path you took back to your home.”

“Having gone in a very large circle,” Daeron murmured. “Yes, all right—I just do not know what to expect near Lond Daer. That’s farther inland than the river mouth, but seems to me that all of Eriador will soon be overrun.”

“All the more reason to take what shortcuts we can.”

They turned south, passing through woodlands that had not yet been touched by the fires of Sauron, but which had been thinned by the logging of the Númenóreans. When they came to the coast they had to backtrack up the Gwathló to find a place to cross—which was hard, even with the horses, for it was wide and deep. After that they returned south to the Sea, and when he caught a glimpse of it on the horizon Maglor couldn’t help but sigh. “You missed it?” Daeron asked. 

“I did.” It was big and wild and dangerous, and by now it was as familiar as his own music. Here the beaches were sandy and wide, and they made very good time as they gave the horses free rein. The wind in his hair smelled of salt rather than smoke, and Maglor sang out in praise of it and of the sun on the waves. Daeron did not join him, but when they slowed to a walk he was smiling. “What?” Maglor asked. 

“Your singing. I’m just glad to hear it again.”

For a while they rode in silence, listening to the waves and to the cries of the gulls and the other shorebirds. Then Maglor said, “I know you say you have forgiven me, but what of Eluréd and Elurín?”

“For Elrond’s sake if nothing else, they will be kind to you. But…” Daeron sighed. “They did not take it well. The…revelations. Of course, the way they learned was not how I would have wished to tell them. I don’t know what your presence on top of it will mean.”

“I still think Tyelko, at least, will come around. He loves you—all three of you.”

Daeron glanced at him, frowning a little. “We have not been lovers, you know, your brother and I. It looks like we are from the outside, I know, but it’s never been like that.”

“I haven’t seen you together enough yet to know what it looks like to me,” said Maglor. “But everyone thought we would end up having an affair at the Mereth Aderthad, remember? Or that we did have one, I can’t quite remember which rumor won out—that we were both just pining after one another or that I actually got you into my bed.” He did remember Maedhros subtly encouraging both rumors just because he thought it was funny—and there had been little enough then that got Maedhros to laugh that Maglor hadn’t had the heart to protest.

“That was just because two rival musicians coming together would make a good story,” said Daeron, rolling his eyes. “Just as it makes a better story for me to be Lúthien’s spurned suitor than what the reality was.”

“Were you not?” Admittedly Maglor had only heard the stories afterward, and he hadn’t really paid that much attention to Daeron’s part in them, but he had not thought to question it.

“Stars above, no. I loved her—of course I did—we grew up together, she was one of my dearest friends, more like my sister or my cousin than anything else. I still betrayed her to her father—twice—but not because I was jealous. I was just—afraid.” Daeron’s mouth twisted unhappily as he looked ahead, down the beach. It was a cold day; they had been on the move for many days, and autumn was more than halfway gone. Clouds had started to gather as they’d raced down the sands, now hiding the sun, and fog was rolling in. The shore could be an eerie place on such days, with sounds echoing oddly. “That is the root of all my mistakes. Fear.”

“Mine too, I think.” Maglor looked back toward the sea, at the ghostly forms of the waves tipped with pale foam. The wind shifted slightly. “We should find shelter. A storm is coming.”

Eventually they cut inland once more, until they crossed the Angren and Daeron recognized the land again. He took the lead, and they made good time, passing through a break in the White Mountains that marched south and, as the year waned and frost gilded the last stubborn leaves still clinging to the tree branches, they came to the hills where Daeron and Celegorm and the twins had made their home. Maglor felt again the power of Daeron’s Girdle closing in around them, and shivered a little. “Could you teach me to sing something like this?” he asked. 

“Yes of course,” said Daeron. “I daresay we’ll have plenty of time, this winter.”

When they emerged from the woods to the clearing where the house and stable were at the base of a tall and grassy hill, they found Eluréd and Elurín already outside waiting for them. Daeron dropped out of the saddle and disappeared into their embrace. Maglor dismounted more slowly, and took the horses toward the stable, where he found Celegorm waiting. “Tyelko—”

“Cáno.” Celegorm threw his arms around him. “Did you take the longest route you could find?”

“Sort of.” Maglor hid his face in Celegorm’s shoulder. “I’m all right. We’re both all right—no one ever caught up to us, and I never had to reveal myself to the Enemy. But I do not know what is happening in the north now. How is Tyelpë?”

“He’s—he’s healing, but slowly. Elurín thinks Daeron might help him better than they can.”

Maglor drew back to look at his face. “Have you spoken?” he asked.

Celegorm shook his head. “He knows I’m here. That I’m…not dead. Or at least he saw me, but I don’t—I don’t know whether he believed any of it was real. He sleeps most of the time, and it’s only lately I think that the songbirds have been able to really speak to him while he’s awake. I don’t go in there then. I think Elurín told him about you, one time when he was clear-headed enough for it.”

“That’s for the best, probably. I don’t want to be the cause of more fear.” As they had drawn closer to their destination Maglor had grown increasingly anxious—of being introduced properly to Eluréd and Elurín, but even more of having to face Celebrimbor. Celegorm had at least had the excuse of not knowing, but he had knowingly and deliberately stayed away, even though he had long known exactly where his nephew was to be found. He had been so sure that it was the right thing—that both Elrond and Celebrimbor would be better off for it, that they did not need him to intrude on the lives they were building for themselves. That surety was crumbling, now.

It was still so shocking, the fall of Eregion. That no one had come in time. He didn’t understand why.

And the only way to learn was to speak to Celebrimbor. 

“Maglor?” Celegorm said softly. It was so strange, this gentleness. Strange but wonderful. Maglor kept finding new things he needed to thank Daeron for—Daeron and Dior’s sons. They had saved Celegorm in so many ways that he didn’t think any of them were even aware of. 

“I’m all right,” he said, and wrapped his arms around Celegorm again. “I love you, Tyelko. I missed you.”

“Love you too,” Celegorm whispered. “No more leaving. No more parting—please.”

“No, no more. It was necessary, but I don’t want to do it again.”

They cared for the horses, and then Maglor followed Celegorm back to the house. They both hesitated before going inside. Maglor wanted to ask what Celegorm had been speaking to the twins about all this time, but he couldn’t quite get up the courage. Inside they found one twin sitting by the hearth, tuning a harp. “Eluréd,” Celegorm said, and he looked up. “This is—Maglor. My brother. Maglor, this is Eluréd.”

Eluréd looked at Maglor. His eyes were so like Elrond’s. “Elrond made us promise once that we wouldn’t try to break your nose if we ever met,” he said. Celegorm made a vaguely strangled noise. “But you would deserve it, you know. For leaving him.”

“Not the rest of it?” Maglor heard himself say and then bit his tongue hard. Celegorm covered his face with one hand.

“I think you’ve already paid for the rest of it,” Eluréd said, looking pointedly at Maglor’s hand—the burned one. Then he went on, “I went to Edhellond for supplies just after we got back, and found someone selling old clothes that might fit you—at least they’d fit Lossë well enough, and you’re the same height.”

“You…didn’t have to do that,” Maglor said. “Thank you.”

The other twin, Elurín, appeared in the doorway that Maglor thought led to a bedroom—it was at least the room where Daeron had been when Maglor and Celegorm had arrived before. “He’s awake,” he said, looking at Celegorm. 

“Does he know—” Celegorm began. 

“Yes. He’s past the panic, but he’s been waiting for you for days, and doesn’t understand why you haven’t spoken to him.”

“Didn’t you—”

“No,” Elurín said. His jaw was tight; he was not nearly as calm as his brother. “I can’t tell him anything because I don’t understand either.”

“Elurín—”

“Just go. One of you. Both of you.” Elurín glanced at Maglor, and his eyes were hard. “At least Lossenol didn’t know. I’m sure your nephew is eager to hear your excuses.”

“Elurín,” Eluréd said quietly, “that’s not helpful.”

“I don’t really care.”

“No, you’re right,” Maglor said. He squeezed Celegorm’s hand and then went to the bedroom door. Inside he found Daeron humming a quiet, soothing song as he dropped a few leaves into a bowl of steaming water. The fragrance filled the room, bringing to mind an early spring morning, smelling of dew-damp grass and fresh wind off of the mountains. Maglor wondered if it was what spring in Eregion had smelled like. 

Celebrimbor lay curled up on his side in the bed. He looked more like himself now, a little more like Maglor remembered him—his wounds were still bandaged, but there was no blood to be seen, and his color was a little better. He was still very pale, though, and too thin, and his expression was almost listless, the light in his eyes dimmed. Daeron glanced up and offered Maglor a small smile. Then he turned to say something to Celebrimbor, and then he left, resting a hand briefly on Maglor’s arm before he slipped out of the room. 

Celebrimbor sighed, and sat up, wrapping his arms loosely around his legs. He did not look surprised, exactly, to see Maglor, but he did look wary and mistrustful. His hair was loose, falling in dark tangles over his shoulders. “Uncle,” he said, voice quiet and rough.

“Tyelpë.” Maglor crossed the room to sit on the edge of the bed. “Tyelpë, I’m so sorry.”

“I looked for you. I—when I built my house, in Ost-in-Edhil, I made a music room and I built an extra bedroom that no one ever—it stood empty, because I hoped you would hear about all that I did and…”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t…after everything that happened, everything I did, I didn’t think—”

“Is that really what you think of me? That I would have turned you away, my own uncle? The only family I had left?”

Well, put like that… “No,” Maglor said. “But I…I just thought it would be better. That you would be better, if I wasn’t there.”

“I wasn’t.” Tears slid down Celebrimbor’s face, and he didn’t try to wipe them away. He looked terribly young. “But I’m—I am glad you weren’t there when he came.”

“I’m sorry that I wasn’t,” Maglor said.

“No, you don’t under—” He looked away. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter. But I’m here now. So is Celegorm.” Maglor reached out, laying his hand over Celebrimbor’s, not quite daring to do more just yet. “He did not remember you, Tyelpë. I stayed away for—for many reasons, none of which I’m realizing now were good enough. But he did not remember, not even his own name. That saved him, long ago—saved his life and saved him from the Oath.” He wanted to say that it was the only thing that had kept Celegorm away, but he didn't think he could. He thought that the same guilt that weighed on his spirit would have kept Celegorm far from Ost-in-Edhil too. 

“Who else survived, that I didn’t know about?” Celebrimbor asked. 

“No one. I thought he was dead too. A large part of Menegroth fell in on itself—I thought that he was buried underneath it.”

“Was—Uncle Moryo, or my father—” His voice broke.

“They died there. I sang their funeral rites and we built their pyres by the banks of the Esgalduin.” It had been too cold for graves, and they had not dared to linger any longer than it took to give what honors they could to the dead, friend and foe, though Maedhros had insisted on searching for Eluréd and Elurín long after it was proved hopeless. They hadn’t even been able to do that much at Sirion; it had been luck that had made Maglor stumble upon Elrond and Elros where they’d hidden themselves. “I don’t yet know the full story, how he forgot or how he remembered, or what he has been doing all this time. We found one another only a few weeks before we followed Eluréd and Elurín north to Eregion.”

“And then you led—him—away from me,” Celebrimbor whispered. “So he knows that you—”

“He knows that Daeron was there. Not me. I thought I would have to reveal myself, and maybe I will yet, but for now he knows nothing of me, or of Tyelko. We hope that he believes you have escaped west into Lindon.”

“Elrond is out there,” Celebrimbor whispered.

“I know, but—it did not seem to me as though anyone had come to Eregion’s aid. Why, Tyelpë? What kept Lindon away?”

“They did come. There was battle outside our walls—to the north, maybe that is why you did not see, if you came from the south as Elurín has said, I don’t know. I don’t know how long ago it was. Elrond came. I saw his banners. But—we tried to prepare, but he—Sauron, he knew what to expect. Knew what I would do.” Celebrimbor looked away again, and Maglor wanted desperately to ask how, but did not think he would receive an answer. “Galadriel left years ago for Lórinand with Celebrían. But even she would not be enough—not against his new strength. Celeborn remained behind—I think he got most of our people out. But I don’t know. He would have laid those plans in secret.”

Maglor felt sick. There was no reason to keep such plans secret from Celebrimbor unless they both knew that he would either fall with the city—or worse. “You could have fled, Tyelpë,” he said.

Celebrimbor looked back at him. Under the wounds and the tears and the shadows in his eyes he looked so much like Curufin—who looked like Fëanor, who looked like Finwë, and Maglor was reminded suddenly and horribly of what it had been to return to Formenos in the dark, to find what awaited them beyond the twisted wreck of the doors. “No,” Celebrimbor said, “I couldn’t.” And Maglor did not try to argue.

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The stream that flowed out from between the hills—the reason they had chosen that particular spot to build their house—was fed by a cold spring nestled in between the hill they’d built their house by and the one next to it. The water was frigid all year around, and since toting bucketfuls all the way to the house for baths had sounded like a miserable prospect, they’d built a separate little bathhouse next to the stream with two luxuriously large tubs inside set over a space for fires to heat the water, tucked right at the bottom of the hill behind the garden. It wasn’t the same as the hot springs that Melian had called forth deep inside Menegroth that Daeron sometimes remembered with longing, but it was the next best thing.

After doing what he could for Celebrimbor, Daeron retreated to the bathhouse, and busied himself in building the fire and then filling the tubs, eager for a long soak to chase away the ache of so many days in the saddle, and to wash the smell of smoke off of his skin and out of his hair, and thinking that Maglor would want a similar soak too before long. 

Celebrimbor was healing well, though very slowly. Sauron’s power still clung to his wounds, in spite of all Elurín and Eluréd had done to try to chase it away. Daeron thought he had fared a little better, though he wasn’t sure why, and if needed he thought he could call on Maglor to help. For the moment, he thought that having both of his uncles with him would do as much or more than any song to start healing the wounds on Celebrimbor’s spirit, which were far worse than those of his body. 

As he stoked the fire and waited for the water to heat, the door opened. “Ada.”

“Elurín.” Daeron sat back on his heels. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes. Mostly.” Elurín knelt next to him. “I just—I missed you.”

“I’m sorry, birdie. I missed you too.” It had felt like an enormous weight had been lifted from him upon returning home to find both the twins there, safe and unharmed. Those weeks in the saddle had seemed like years, and his thoughts had been constantly with them. He would never forget what it had been like on that hilltop, hearing Eluréd’s song end so suddenly. It had been even worse than watching Elurín’s battle against the dragon, long ago.

“Please never do that again.”

“I hope that I won’t have to.” Daeron reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind Elurín’s ear. “But at this point I think we all know better than to make such promises. Whatever happens, we’ll all do what we must. Have you and Eluréd spoken to Lossë?”

“A little.” Elurín leaned over to rest his head on Daeron’s shoulder. “It’s just—I’ve felt like—like when you got back everything would be easier. But it isn’t.”

“It’s only been an hour,” Daeron said. “I’m so sorry, Elurín. I wish you hadn’t had to learn all of this in such a way, or that we all had to part as we did so soon afterward.”

“Were it up to you we never would have learned.”

“Well…maybe. I’ve always known the truth would come out eventually—the truth of who he is, I mean. But I did hope that my own knowledge of it might remain a secret forever.”

“How?”

“Well for one thing, I hoped that if he remembered his past it would be by his own choice, and that we would all have some warning—some time to prepare.” Daeron sighed, and watched the flames dance over the wood. The heat felt nice; he’d been feeling chilled ever since Ost-in-Edhil, and he’d not used that kind of power since facing down Sauron at the very end of the War of Wrath. He was exhausted. “You know,” he said after a moment, reluctant to speak of it but feeling that he had to, “there are ships that depart from Edhellond—”

“No,” Elurín said.

“But you could—”

“We aren’t leaving you. Lossë can’t go, anyway. Nor can Celebrimbor, or Maglor. The leaders of the Exiles—the ones that refused to go back after the end of the war—they’re not permitted to go. Even Galadriel couldn’t if she decided she wanted to.”

“You want to stay with Lossë?” Daeron asked. 

“I want to stay with you.” Elurín sat up. “I’m—I was angry for a while, that you’d lied to us, but I understand why you did it. I think in time I might even be glad of it. But I don’t know how to not hate him for what he did. I don’t know how not to love him, either, and it’s—I don’t know how Eluréd can balance it. I can’t.”

“Oh, Elurín.” Daeron wiped away a tear as it slipped down Elurín’s cheek. “I’m so sorry.”

“I just—when I felt this way I used to go to him, because he always knew what to say to help me work through it, but I can’t now, and…”

“You can. You can say whatever you need to say, and he will listen. This new remembering does not change who he is. He loves you, Elurín. He’s loved you almost as long as I have—and only because I’ve known you a few days longer.”

“We were where we were all supposed to be,” Elurín said. “And—and we’re where we’re supposed to be now. I know that. I just don’t know what we’re supposed to do. Or how to make it stop hurting.”

“Talk to him, Elurín. It might not be solved in one conversation, or even many, but I know he does not want to lose you any more than you want to lose him. And when you do talk to him, listen, too. Listen to what he has to say.”

“Are you going to take your own advice?”

“I’m going to try.” Daeron got to his feet. “But right now I am very tired, and very sore, and very dirty.” 

Elurín left him after the water heated, promising to tell Maglor there was a bath awaiting him if he wished, and with a sigh Daeron finally sank into the steaming water. He felt the chill in his bones start to leave almost immediately. The air was steamy and fragrant with the athelas he’d dropped into the tub, feeling a need of its virtues, the way it seemed to cleanse the spirit the way soap cleansed the skin. 

After a while the door opened, letting in a burst of cold air before Maglor closed it behind him. When he didn’t hear any other movement Daeron raised his head, and found Maglor looking at him oddly. “What?”

“Sorry.” Maglor quickly looked away. “Just—I didn’t expect such scars on you.”

Daeron glanced down to where an old scarred over bite-wound covered much of his forearm; there had been a great deal of damage to the skin, so it didn’t even really look like a bite as much as it looked like something had torn into him, and it had not healed cleanly even under the care of skilled healers. “Sauron and his wolves caught up to Eluréd and me, just after the War of Wrath,” he said. “You remember when the Gulf of Lhûn opened?”

“Of course I do. It felt like the whole world was going to break apart.” Maglor stripped, revealing plenty of battle scars of his own, and climbed into the other tub. His sigh mirrored Daeron’s. “Thank you for this. I can’t remember when I last had a hot bath.” Then, after they sat in silence for a little while, he said, “I haven’t thought of that time in—so many years. But you were there, weren’t you, when the Gelion dried up and the Sea came rushing in? I remember your voice, now, warning us of the waves.”

“Yes.”

“And—I remember someone else calling out a warning of the balrog. At the time I didn’t really pay attention to the voice, just the words, but…it was Tyelko, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Daeron said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Maglor said, as the door opened again. “Not to me. Not for saving his life.”

Celegorm paused in the doorway, a bundle in his hands and an odd look passing over his face. Daeron sank a little lower into the water. “I brought you clean clothes, Maglor,” Celegorm said after a moment. 

There was a familiar tightness around his eyes and Daeron said before he could stop himself, “Lossë—does your head ache?”

“Of course it does,” Celegorm said, not quite snapping. “Everything aches.”

“Do you want—” Maglor began.

“If either of you start singing at me I’ll hit you so hard that you start forgetting things.” He dropped the bundle on the bench by the door and left. Daeron flinched when the door slammed shut behind him. Maglor sighed. 

“I deserved that,” Daeron said after a moment. 

“No, you didn’t. I’ll talk to him—”

“No, please don’t.” Daeron ducked his head under the water to wet his hair, and reached for the soap as he came up.

They were silent for a while. Then Maglor asked, as he reached for soap for himself, “Where did you get that scar around your throat?”

Daeron touched it, though there wasn’t really anything to feel. It was a thin, pale line that he rarely thought about anymore. “Someone I knew had been taken,” he said. “Enthralled. He—even unto the end it seems the Enemy wished me taken too, or killed, and he caught up to me the day you fought that balrog by the Gelion.”

“What happened to him?”

“He died. I killed him.” He had used his own power to reach into Menelas and break the enchantments that held him bound to the will of the Enemy, but he had not been gentle—there had been no time—and after so many years of torment and the shock of the sudden release, Menelas had not been strong enough to survive it. But he had been himself when he had died, and at least they had gotten to say a real goodbye, though that was small comfort. Daeron still thought of him often, especially in the autumn when all that sort of grief seemed heaviest—all the terrible things in his life seemed to happen at that time of year—but he did not often remember that he still bore the marks of that final fight. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

By the time Daeron returned to the house he felt clean but still apprehensive. He twisted his hair into a damp braid as he walked, and when he stepped inside he found even more tension awaiting him. Eluréd sat with his harp near Celegorm, whose face Daeron could not see as he stared at the fire. Elurín was chopping something for dinner, scowling down at the knife in his hands. Daeron had not heard raised voices, so he thought this must just have been what it was like all the time he was gone.

“Celebrimbor is asleep,” Eluréd said as Daeron set his dirty clothes in the basket near the bedroom door.

“Good.”

“We need to think about where we’re all going to sleep this winter,” Elurín said. “We’ve been taking shifts, someone staying up with him—but I don’t think he needs it anymore. Eluréd went to Edhellond a few weeks ago and brought back extra pillows and blankets.”

“I don’t mind taking the floor,” said Daeron. “Down here or upstairs.”

“We can all take turns,” said Eluréd. “Celebrimbor needs a proper bed, but I think the rest of us will be fine. Maybe come spring—if it’s still too dangerous to leave, we can build another bedroom.”

“Maybe,” Daeron said, glancing at Celegorm, who hadn’t moved or spoken. It did not seem wise to think much of that kind of future—it seemed as uncertain now as it had during the War of Wrath. “Did you hear anything in Edhellond of what’s happening in the north?”

Eluréd shook his head. “Eriador burns. That’s all anyone knows.”

Maglor came in after a little while. He went to Celegorm, who immediately sat him down so he could comb out his hair for him. Neither of them spoke, and Daeron tried not to watch, instead going to help Elurín. He did not think they would be able to stay there. Certainly Celebrimbor couldn’t. Come spring, when they could travel at least without fear of foul weather north of the Gap, and he was stronger, they needed to decide what to do. The fewer who knew that he lived the better—but that could not be sustained for long. And there were many in the north who needed to know that he lived. Daeron wondered if there was a way to get word up the Anduin, to Oropher or to Amdír. Probably not without either all of them going up the river themselves, or separating—and he was no more willing to split up again than the twins were. 

Though it might happen anyway. Daeron looked at Celegorm again, who was whispering to Maglor as he tied off a braid. Maglor leaned his head back against Celegorm’s legs, eyes closed. Celegorm glanced up and their gazes met—and he looked away. Daeron averted his own gaze, wishing that he knew what to say. How to fix this. If it could be fixed. 

Elurín disappeared into the bedroom with dinner for Celebrimbor. He seemed to have taken personal responsibility for him, perhaps because he had been the one to carry him out of Ost-in-Edhil. Celegorm and Maglor spoke quietly together, and Eluréd ate quickly before disappearing outside, murmuring something about tending the horses. That left Daeron more or less alone, so after he ate he picked up his own harp and started to play, choosing melodies more or less at random, just wanting to fill the silence. 

The next few days passed similarly. Celegorm wouldn’t look at Daeron and only spoke to him when absolutely necessary. Elurín did the same to Celegorm. Celegorm also avoided the bedroom, though whenever Celebrimbor was awake Maglor went in to sit with him, to talk or to play quiet music, and started sleeping there at night. Celegorm spent most of his time outside, with the horses or going hunting, to shore up their supplies for the winter. 

“You need to talk,” Eluréd told Daeron after a week. “We can’t go on like this. I feel like I’m going to go mad.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” 

“Stop apologizing to us. Talk to him.”

That was much easier said than done. Daeron had been trying, but Celegorm was avoiding him, and if he pushed too hard he feared it would just end up in a fight. Maybe that was what needed to happen, but he didn’t think he could get through it, didn’t think he could make himself heard without breaking first, if Celegorm was in the mood to shout at him instead of listen. 

As evening fell he climbed the hill behind the house. It was cold, and frost crunched under his feet, but atop the hill he could look up and see the stars, the diamond bright spill of them across the sky. It was almost too late to glimpse Gil-Estel away in the west, but he saw it glimmering just above the horizon. To the north the Sickle shone—but there would be no intervention from the Valar now. Daeron did not have the same strength of foresight that the twins did, but he did know that. Their wars sank continents, reshaped the world, and he did not think they would choose to do it again. 

The wind picked up, sharp and cold, as he stood there and watched Gil-Estel disappear behind the distant mountains, and an idea came to him—a way to make Celegorm listen. Daeron thought about it carefully, put together the words and turned them this way and that in his mind, adjusting and readjusting until he was confident that it would work for him and only him, that he would only be making a point in a way that couldn’t be ignored, not binding himself to something that might grow out of his control. Finally satisfied, he went back down to the house. 

The twins were both with Celebrimbor; Daeron could hear their voices through the door that stood ajar. Someone laughed, and he thought that was a good sign. Maglor had his harp on his lap, picking out a simple tune. Celegorm was just putting the kettle over the fire. “I need to speak to you,” Daeron said. Both brothers looked up, but he kept his gaze on Celegorm. He couldn’t make himself use that name—it felt wrong in his mouth after all this time—but he didn’t want to end this before it began by calling him Lossenol. 

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Celegorm said.

“Tyelko,” Maglor said quietly.

“I’m not—”

“Please,” Daeron said. 

“No—”

He made himself sigh with more exasperation than he really felt. “Fine, then. I suppose I’ll just have to swear this binding and probably-misguided oath with no other witnesses than the stars.”

“What?” Maglor said, fingers fumbling over the harp strings as Celegorm straightened so quickly he nearly smacked his head on the mantelpiece. Daeron just turned and left, heading back up the hillside. After a few seconds he heard the door bang open, and Celegorm call his name, but he didn’t slow or look back, not until he reached the top of the hill. 

“What do you mean swear an oath?” Celegorm finally caught up, grabbing Daeron’s arm like he had before they’d parted in Eregion. His grip wasn’t quite hard enough to hurt now. “Have you lost your mind?”

“Of course not.” Daeron pulled himself free and stepped back, wrapping his cloak more tightly around himself. Maglor caught up then, out of breath and looking alarmed. 

“Then are you stupid?” Celegorm demanded. “What kind of oath—”

“I’m not stupid,” Daeron snapped. “I’m quite clever, actually! How else was I going to get and keep your attention?”

Celegorm relaxed slightly, but his scowl deepened. “So it was just another—”

“I didn’t say that. I need you to listen to me, Lossë.” Daeron took another few steps back, so he stood at the very top of the hill. His breath misted before him, and he inhaled deeply the freezing air before going on, this time in deliberate Quenya. “By the stars that saw my birth and have guided me all my life, and by the wind that gives me breath, I call upon Varda Elentári and Manwë Súlimo to witness this oath, and by the Flame Everlasting at the heart of the world I swear,” he had to raise his voice when Celegorm tried to interrupt, “I swear that the only secret I ever kept from you was your name, and that from this moment until the sun rises in the morning every word I speak is the truth, plain and unadorned; if I raise my voice in a lie this night, let it be taken from me forever.” He felt the oath take hold, could almost feel the heavy weight of Manwë’s gaze and the star-bright attention of Varda, and knew that his swearing had been witnessed. He shivered, and not from the cold.

Celegorm stared at him. After a moment, behind him, Maglor laughed—abrupt and incredulous. “That’s a dangerous thing to swear, Daeron,” he said.

“I know,” Daeron said. “It lasts until the dawn—then I’ll be free to lie as much as I please.”

Celegorm’s expression was hard to read. He was in the habit these days of wearing his hair loose so that it fell over the left half of it, Daeron supposed just in case Celebrimbor happened to see him before either of them were ready to confront how much he had changed. It meant now that most of his face was in shadow, and all that Daeron could see was his good eye, glimmering with ancient Treelight. “You shouldn’t have to bind yourself to the truth in order to speak it, Daeron.”

“I don’t,” Daeron said. “That isn’t why I’m doing this. It is so you will believe me when I speak the truth.”

“Can you blame me for not believing you?” Celegorm demanded. “I should’ve realized it long ago. You were always so ready to lie—when you made up stories about who I really was, or—”

“Of course I will lie when I think it’s necessary. Or did you really want to tell everyone we met that you did not remember anything of your past? Do you think anyone would have believed that, even though it was true? Maybe they would not have guessed at the real truth but they might have taken you for a thrall of Angband, or worse. Those stories kept questions at bay and they kept you safe.”

“But you—it should’ve been my own choice—”

“It was your choice,” Daeron said. “It was always your choice. If you had chosen to try to remember I would’ve done anything I could to help you. I’ve told you that, over and over. I just—the Oath kept trying to wake, and I couldn’t let it. In the beginning I didn’t know what you would do—what it might drive you to do, after all you’d already done in Nargoth—”

“Don’t,” Celegorm’s voice was almost a snarl. “Don’t speak to me of Nargothrond!”

Daeron couldn’t help but flinch—that was not a tone of voice he had ever heard from Celegorm, and he did not like it—but he moved on. “I knew you wouldn’t hurt the twins—after just a few years I knew you wouldn’t let your Oath hurt them either. But you—you also told me more than once that you feared that to remember would be to have grief overwhelm you so that you died.” At this Daeron heard Maglor make a noise, but he didn’t look away from Celegorm. “I love you,” he said, “and I didn’t want to lose you. I still don’t. I’m—I am sorry that I have hurt you, and I’m sorry that I did not speak the truth sooner, but I can’t say that I’m sorry to have lied in the first place. Because I don’t regret it.”

“I would’ve forsworn it,” Celegorm said, very quietly. “I would’ve. For you.”

“We tried that,” Maglor said, even more quietly. “It just made everything worse.”

“I could’ve done it. I—”

“You would have tried.” Daeron stepped forward and took Celegorm’s face in his hands, thumbing away the tears. “You would’ve tried, and all you would have accomplished was hurting yourself. You would have had no choice in the end but to return to your brothers, and everything would have been so, so much worse.”

“In keeping this from you, Tyelko,” Maglor said, “he gave you back your choices. That is how he saved you.”

“And afterward?” Celegorm asked, ignoring Maglor, keeping his gaze on Daeron. “After it was gone? I felt it—when the Oath was fulfilled, when it was over. I just didn’t know what it was. You had to know, too. So why—”

“You know that I know what it feels like—to be so overwhelmed by grief that it nearly drowns you. You watched me struggle against it for years—you saved me from it. I wouldn’t wish that pain on anyone, least of all you.”

“I didn’t kill me, though,” Celegorm whispered. “I’m still here.”

“But both of us had good reason to believe it would. It might have—if Maglor hadn't found you—”

“No.” Celegorm shook his head and stepped away. “It’s—it was never going to kill me. That’s the curse. If I’d known—”

“Lossë—”

“If you had told me in time, I might have been able to stop Maedhros. He might still be alive. Don’t follow me.”

“Tyelko,” Maglor said, catching his hand as he turned to walk away. “Where—”

“Just—don’t, all right?”

Daeron wrapped his arms around himself as he watched Celegorm disappear down the other side of the hill. After a moment Maglor asked, “Does the oath bind you to truth entirely, or just when speaking to him?”

“Entirely.”

“I’ll be careful what I say, then.”

“No, it’s all right. I haven’t bound myself to answer questions if I don’t want to—I told you, I’m not stupid.”

“No, but neither am I, and I haven’t missed what you’ve implied about my father in saying so.”

“I don’t necessarily think he was stupid,” said Daeron, “but I also don’t care how brilliant he might have been. I’ve forgiven you all that you’ve done, you and your brothers—which is not to say I found it easy—but I do not think I will ever forgive him for putting it all in motion. It was thoughtless at best, and horrifically cruel to everyone on all sides no matter how you look at it.”

Maglor sighed. “Sometimes I think I hate him, too,” he said softly, “but—well. I knew him before it all went wrong, and all you know are the tales. He was brilliant and he was full of fire, and I think he went mad at the end, after his own father died. But before that he was—” His voice wavered and he stopped to inhale deeply, letting it out slowly as it misted in the air before him. “He loved us, with all that fire that was in him. He did—he was a good father. But he was burdened with a grief that no one else could share, or even understand, and I think it ate away at him over the years, little by little, even before Morgoth was released and set his sights upon the Noldor. I hope he found healing in the Halls. I miss him more than I could ever hate him.”

“You’re right, I didn’t know him,” Daeron said. “But I know you, a little, and I know your brother much better, and I know what Fëanor’s Oath made you do and what it did to your brother when he would not follow its call—even when it was not truly acting upon him. I have always tried not to indulge in hatred—it’s a poison, and I would be the worst of hypocrites if I nursed it in myself after counseling Elurín as I have, over and over, not to. But I cannot find it in me to give Fëanor the same grace I can give you.”

“I understand. I wouldn’t ask you to. I love my father but that doesn’t mean I would know what to say if I ever saw him again.”

They returned to the house together. Eluréd and Elurín were back out in the main room, and looked up with identical frowns. “What were you doing out there for so long?” Elurín asked. “It’s freezing, Ada.”

“Where’s Lossenol?” asked Eluréd. 

“He needs some time to himself,” Daeron said. “We spoke. It was—difficult.”

Eluréd narrowed his eyes at him as he sat down. “What did you do?”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s something different about you.”

“He swore to tell nothing but the truth until the sun rises,” Maglor said. 

“You swore a binding oath?” Elurín exclaimed. “What—”

“I needed to talk to Lossë, and he wouldn’t listen to what I said any other way,” Daeron said. “As far as bindings—it lasts only until the morning. It’s nothing that can be twisted around to hurt anyone.”

“Unless you say something hurtful because you have no choice.”

“In which case I can just refuse to say it. I’m not compelled to answer any question put to me. I knew what I was doing—I swore it to make a point, and I was careful.” Daeron leaned back in his seat and accepted the blanket Eluréd handed him. Maglor sat on the floor near the fire, crossing his legs. “Will you play something for us?” Daeron asked him. 

“What would you like to hear?”

“Anything you want to play.”

“All right.” Maglor picked up his harp again. It was carefully and skillfully carved of driftwood and lovely to look at. Daeron wasn’t sure where he had gotten the strings for it, but its sound was sweet and light, and he was still as skilled as he’d ever been. Eluréd and Elurín went back to what they’d been doing, murmuring quietly to one another as they worked, and Daeron let himself drift, eyes closed, the fire warm on his face. 

Sooner than Daeron expected, Celegorm returned, looking tired and with his ears and nose red from the cold. Eluréd dragged him over to sit by the fire—on the floor in front of Daeron’s chair, where he had often sat in the evenings before everything had gone wrong. Daeron reached out before he could think better of it, picking a few leaves out of his hair and flicking them onto the hearth. To his surprise, Celegorm leaned back against his legs, resting his head on his thigh.

“I have one more question for you,” Celegorm said after a while. “It’s been bothering me for a long time.”

“Anything,” Daeron said softly. 

“Where’d you hide my sword when you stole it that one time?”

Maglor’s fingers slipped on the harp strings as Eluréd and Elurín both choked on startled laughter.

“When did I take your—oh, that. Behind the goat pen.”

Celegorm snorted. “Of course. Should’ve known.”

“Can I ask why you stole his sword?” Maglor asked. 

“He nearly got himself killed when a scout out of Angband came into the woods where we were living,” said Daeron. He found another leaf and pulled it free of Celegorm’s hair. “We quarreled afterward, and I didn’t want him going back out and tearing his stitches. He and the goats hated one another, so behind the goat pen was the on place I knew he wouldn’t look.”

“I was fine,” Celegorm said, and it was such a relief to be having this argument again that Daeron almost wanted to cry. 

“You definitely weren’t. And I can’t lie, so you know I’m right.”

“I don’t think that’s how that works—”

Daeron leaned forward to wrap his arms around Celegorm, hiding his face in them and in Celegorm’s hair, cold and smooth against his cheek. “It’s exactly how it works,” he said, and then whispered, “Do you forgive me?”

Celegorm covered Daeron’s hands with his. “I don’t know,” he whispered back, but tightened his grip when Daeron made to pull away. “But—swearing any oath at all was stupid, Daeron.”

“It was for you.”

“I know. Thank you. Never do it again.”

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Elurín watched Daeron lean forward to wrap his arms around Celegorm, and then looked away. It had been weeks now and it was still next to impossible to reconcile any of it in his head. Celegorm mostly seemed the same as he always had, except he was quieter, more careful in what he said when he spoke to either Eluréd or Elurín—and he kept his distance, waiting for them to choose to close it. Eluréd was willing—Elurín couldn’t make himself do it.

On the one hand, he understood what Celegorm was trying to do, and was grateful. On the other, he just wanted his father to come and help him, as he had his entire life. 

Then he thought that if one issue was going to be forced that night, they might as well force another. It had been weeks, and still Celegorm was entirely avoiding Celebrimbor. That was understandable, mostly; Celebrimbor been caught up in nightmares and feverish fears for many days, especially after he’d first stumbled out of the bedroom and seen all three of them, and it was only very recently that he had started really believing either Eluréd or Elurín when they told him that he was safe, that this was no trick, that they were far away from Eregion and somewhere Sauron would not find him. But he had met with Maglor calmly enough, and though he hadn’t asked again, Elurín knew that he was waiting for Celegorm to come to him—only Celegorm seemed determined not to.

He got up and went to the bedroom, finding Celebrimbor out of bed and curled up in the chair they’d put by the window. He was looking out at the stars, and there were traces of tears on his face. “Celebrimbor?” Elurín shut the door behind him. 

“That’s my uncle’s music,” Celebrimbor said without looking at him.

“Yes, it is. You should come out and join us.”

“Is my other uncle there?”

“Yes. Another reason you should come out, if you think you can walk that far.” Celebrimbor had been very slow to heal, even though his injuries had not been nearly as bad as Elurín had been expecting after some of the tales he’d heard of others put to torment. But then, Celegorm had been injured by Sauron during the War of Wrath, and even those hurts—inflicted almost incidentally and in passing—had taken a very long time to heal. Elurín still did not know why that had been, but he thought that the even deeper wounds to Celebrimbor’s spirit were in part what kept his body from healing as it should. “He hasn’t wanted to frighten or upset you,” Elurín added. 

“I think it’s a little late for that,” Celebrimbor said. He looked over at Elurín. “I’m sorry. I know I should, but I still don’t know which one you are.”

“Oh, that’s all right. Hardly anyone can tell us apart in the beginning, and you have plenty of more important things to worry about. I’m Elurín.” He walked over and pulled up his sleeve a little, to show better a scar on his arm. “I’ve got more scars than my brother, though that’s not very helpful at first glance since they’re all mostly covered.”

Celebrimbor looked down at the scars. “Those are burns.”

“I helped slay a dragon once.” He had burn scars splashed across his right arm and his chest, and even now sometimes he dreamed of it—of the dragon, of drowning in its blood. Only the end of the War of Wrath when the world had split apart had been more frightening than that very first battle in which he’d taken part. The rest of the time he’d had Eluréd beside him—he could do almost anything without fear if Eluréd was there. “Come,” he said, and held out his hands. Celebrimbor accepted the help up, swaying only a little once he was on his feet. “Someone needs to tell Lossë how stupid he’s being, and I think you most deserve to do it, all things considered.”

“Lossë? Is that what you call him?”

“Yes. We named him Lossenol, Eluréd and I, since he had forgotten his real one. It got shortened to Lossë when we started properly learning Quenya. It’s been so long now I don’t think I can ever really call him—any of his other names.” He couldn’t even make himself say it out loud. Elurín wrapped Celebrimbor up in a robe and then took his hand to lead him out into the main room. When he opened the door Maglor glanced up and smiled to see Celebrimbor, his hands never faltering on the harp strings. Celegorm also looked up, and Elurín saw how he went stiff—a precursor to leaving, except that Daeron leaned over again, putting his hands on his shoulders and whispering something in his ear. Elurín looked at Celebrimbor, who was very deliberately looking away, glancing around the room, taking in all the little details. But he came willingly when Elurín led him over to sit between himself and Eluréd, who smiled and handed over an extra blanket.

“I’m glad to see you up, Celebrimbor,” Daeron said. Celebrimbor nodded. Daeron rose from his seat and went to fill the kettle, murmuring something about tea. Maglor, watching both Celegorm and Celebrimbor, deftly moved his hands on the strings and changed the song he was playing. Elurín didn’t know it but both Celebrimbor and Celegorm seemed to, judging by how Celebrimbor’s breath hitched just a little, and Celegorm turned away. Elurín exchanged a glance with Eluréd, but when they went to get up, Celebrimbor grabbed Elurín’s wrist with surprising strength. Elurín immediately settled back, though Eluréd still got up, resting his hand on Celebrimbor’s shoulder for a moment before going to help Daeron with the kettle and the tea. Maglor glanced over at Celegorm, and then kicked his ankle surprisingly hard—until that moment the two of them had been so very careful and gentle with one another.

“Ow, Cáno—”

“Stop being stupid, Tyelko.”

“I’m not—”

“Uncle,” Celebrimbor said, and Celegorm fell silent. His hair had fallen forward again, hiding the left part of his face. “Why won’t you look at me?”

When Celegorm didn’t answer, Maglor said, “He doesn’t want to upset you, Tyelpë.”

“I’m already upset,” Celebrimbor said, voice tight. He hadn’t let go of Elurín’s wrist, and Elurín could feel the slight tremor in his hand. “I already—” He broke off and inhaled sharply when Celegorm pushed his hair back and turned his head. “Oh,” he said, very softly as he exhaled. The scars were not shocking to Elurín—they never had been, since he’d been there to see the wounds when they were fresh, to watch Daeron change the bandages and worry over them. But he supposed they would be if he had ever known what Celegorm looked like without them—if he had once known him well and then been parted from him for years uncounted, only to reunite and see him so changed. Celebrimbor had seen Celegorm since they’d returned home, but only once, and he’d still been half out of his mind with fear, and even then Elurín thought that part of Celegorm’s face had been hidden.

“I’m sorry, Tyelpë,” Celegorm said quietly.

“For what, in particular?” Celebrimbor asked. He was still trembling ever so slightly.

“For—everything, but right now for—I don’t know anymore. Everything I do seems to be the wrong thing.” He rose to his feet and left then, ignoring Maglor when he called after him. Celebrimbor watched him and then got up himself, stumbling a little before he reached the door. 

Elurín looked at Maglor, who sighed and ran his fingers over the harp in a cascade of descending notes. “They were very close once,” he said, answering a question Elurín didn’t know how to ask. “We all doted on Telperinquar, of course, but…”

“Celegorm and Curufin—in all the tales, they are always together, like you and Maedhros.”

“They worked well together, in the same way that Maedhros and I did. That was why Maedhros set them both in Himlad. And they worked well together because they were very close, much like Maedhros and I. Not to say that all seven of us were not close—we were—but in large families it’s only natural for some to get along a little better than others.” He smiled, but it was a very sad expression. “And now our family has shrunk, though not as much as I had thought.”

“Are you really not…do you not care that Daeron—”

“You have never known my brother at his worst,” said Maglor. “He lost himself long before he forgot it. In keeping the truth from him Daeron not only saved his life but brought him back. I could not save my other brothers—it would have been wonderful to have gotten him back sooner, of course, but I have him now. That’s more than I ever thought I would get, and I do not think I can ever repay Daeron for it.”

“You owe me nothing,” said Daeron, bringing mugs of steaming chamomile over to hand to Elurín and then to Maglor. “I should have revealed the truth long ago—and you should not have had to suffer alone for so long.”

“I would not call it suffering,” Maglor said. “Maybe in the beginning, but…” He looked down at the mug in his hands—everything always seemed so surprising to him, even the simplest of comforts. Elurín wondered if he was trying to convince them or himself that he had not been suffering all this time. To go from seven to one—Elurín glanced at Eluréd, who came to sit beside him so their shoulders pressed against one another. To lose Eluréd would be to lose half of himself. He’d already come close once, and he knew that he wouldn’t be able to survive such a loss. To hear what had befallen Elwing had been nearly unbearable, and they had not even really known her, had not seen her since she was a baby.

“I would,” said Daeron, his thoughts seeming to run along the same track as Elurín’s. And he would know—he’d also lived in self-imposed exile for many years, though still far fewer than Maglor, and for less reason. Every time he thought of it Elurín’s heart hurt a little, and he wasn’t sure that he liked feeling something of the same for Maglor, who had also been in Doriath, and who had later been at Sirion.

Celegorm and Celebrimbor came inside then, Celegorm ushering Celebrimbor ahead of him and muttering something about it being far too cold. They vanished into the bedroom, the door clicking shut behind them. Eluréd watched them, and then got to his feet again, tugging on Elurín’s hand. They bid Daeron and Maglor goodnight and retreated upstairs. When their own bedroom door shut behind them, Elurín let out a sigh. 

“You’re still angry?” Eluréd asked him. 

“No. Yes. I don’t know. I don’t know how you can just…”

“I told Atya—maybe I’ve just thought about it more than you have—but I don’t find it that hard to accept that many things can be true at once.” Eluréd sank onto his bed, looking down at his mug. It was warm in the room, with the heat from the hearth downstairs rising up into it. Elurín sat down next to Eluréd and leaned on his shoulder. “Do you ever get angry with Adar Dior?”

“All the time.”

“But you still love him.”

Elurín didn’t answer right away. There were some thoughts that felt like the worst of betrayals of the family he’d lost, and he hesitated to speak them aloud—but if there was anyone in the world who could understand, it was Eluréd. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “If he were here—if he were to appear on our doorstep tomorrow morning—I don’t know what I would do, but I don’t think I would be happy to see him. I think I would hate him.”

“I think so too,” said Eluréd, “but I still love him at the same time. Him and Naneth. And Elrond loves Maglor—didn’t Maglor do almost the same to Elwing that Celegorm did to Dior?”

“Elwing isn’t dead. And Maglor never lied to Elrond.”

“Lossë never lied to us, either. And you know why Daeron did.”

“That’s not what I meant. Elrond never had to—he always just knew.” Elurín sat up straight. “And he’s out there somewhere. Fighting a war while we’re just—sitting here feeling sorry for ourselves.”

“We can’t do anything more until Celebrimbor is recovered,” said Eluréd. “And winter is coming on—even the Enemy can’t fight through the snows. Elrond is…” He paused, gaze going distant. Elurín also took a moment to try to pierce the shadows that hovered over the north, but both Eriador and the future were beyond his sight. “I think he’s going to be all right,” Eluréd said finally. “He’s important. The Enemy knows it, but the Enemy has always underestimated our line. We just proved that, didn’t we? I don’t think he will learn his lesson—or at least he won’t learn the right one.”

“I want to go see what’s happening—just past the mountains,” Elurín said. 

“No.” Eluréd grabbed his wrist. “We’re safe here. That I do know. I’ve been singing more into Daeron’s Girdle, a little every day. So has Daeron. If Maglor can sing his strength into it too, it will be nigh impenetrable.”

“But not forever. He’ll learn eventually that Celebrimbor isn’t in the north, and then he’ll come looking.”

“By then we’ll be gone,” Eluréd said. “We can’t stay here forever, I know that, and maybe when we leave we can’t ever come back, but we can stay at least through the winter, and I think maybe we’ll have to stay a little longer—I feel we were horribly lucky to get through the Gap the way we did, and if we go north too soon we’ll find it overrun. And that means you need to talk to Atya Lossë, Elurín. You have to learn how to live with what has always been true—if you don’t, if all of us can’t trust each other, then we’ll never make it.”

They each had their own bed, but Eluréd curled up in Elurín’s that night—as he had most nights that they were able to go to sleep at the same time since returning from Eregion. Elurín lay with his arm around his brother and stared at the dark ceiling, listening to the soft sounds of a harp and a flute harmonizing downstairs, and wishing he could find the same balance that Eluréd could. Sometimes, lately, he wondered if he had made the right choice after the war—if he should have followed Elros instead. There were very few thoughts that he kept secret even from Eluréd, and that was one of them—in the light of day he could look into his own heart and know that he didn’t truly regret his choice, but in the dark, when doubts crept in, it was too easy to long for something simple, to long to be someone like Elros who could look at death and see it for the gift it was and to accept it with a smile and open hands, leaving the trials and woes of the world behind forever.

He slept poorly, and gave up sometime around dawn, slipping out of bed without waking Eluréd, and out of the room without waking Daeron who had taken Eluréd’s bed that night. After going out to do some chores around the stable and to make sure the horses were all right, he came back inside to find Celegorm stirring the embers on the hearth. Elurín stared at him, thought about what Eluréd had said—knew that Eluréd was right—and turned away instead, aware of Celegorm’s gaze on him after a moment, and both grateful and resentful that he didn’t say anything. When Eluréd came downstairs he glanced between them and sighed. 

Elurín just couldn’t do it. Everything he wanted to say got lodged in his throat, burning like bile, and he still didn’t even know what he wanted. And he couldn’t just go off into the woods for a few days or a few weeks to try to figure it out on his own because it was too dangerous. This had all happened at the worst possible time. 

Celebrimbor ventured out of the bedroom after a little while, slightly unsteady on his feet but looking a little more at ease than he had the night before. Elurín put on a smile for him, because none of the turmoil was his fault, and was gratified to get a smile in return. Celegorm rose from the hearth to speak briefly to Celebrimbor, before disappearing outside. “Is all well?” Elurín asked once they were alone. 

“I don’t know. Maybe it will be.” Celebrimbor sat at the table when Elurín gestured. “I haven’t thanked you yet. For saving my life. So—thank you.”

“You’re welcome, of course,” said Eluréd as he got out the ingredients for porridge—it was the kind of day where something thick and hot would be welcome.

“But what—what happens now? We just—stay here while Sauron burns the world down?”

“We stay here through the winter,” said Elurín. “Eluréd and I were speaking of it a little last night—come spring, I thought we might try to head north up the Anduin, if we can get across the Gap without anyone noticing. Our kinsman Amdír dwells in Lórinand. We can at least learn from him what has been happening.”

“Galadriel is there also,” Celebrimbor said after a moment, as Maglor came from the bedroom and Daeron came downstairs. “I suppose she might already know that I’m—”

“She doesn’t,” Daeron said. He went to put on the kettle for tea.

“She can see almost anything in her mirror,” Celebrimbor said doubtfully. “Maybe you do not know her well, but…”

“It’s true that she and I have never been much more than acquaintances,” said Daeron, “but I was Melian’s student much longer than she was, and I learned all of the same tricks of seeking—and how to counter them. When I sung up the Girdle that hides us now, it was in part to keep out of her sight. I cannot take that part away without unsinging the entire thing, and it’s far too risky.”

“But why would you want to hide from her, particularly?” Celebrimbor asked. Then, “Oh. My uncle.”

“Yes. Going north to Lórinand is most likely the best and safest course—but I won’t deny that I am not looking forward to meeting Galadriel again.”

“Nor am I,” said Maglor with a slight grimace.

“It won’t be that bad,” said Celebrimbor, though he did not sound very certain. “She’s tried before to find you, Uncle, and not for the reasons you fear.”

“I’m glad to know that,” Maglor said after a moment, after his face did something complicated. “She and I were friends, once. When she was very young. But I doubt she will be as pleased as you and I to see Celegorm.”

“Well, maybe not, but…”

“There are bigger things to worry about,” said Eluréd as Celegorm came back inside, “than what happened centuries ago. If Galadriel can’t put the past aside, then perhaps she is not as wise as she would like us all to believe.”

“I’m sure Galadriel can put the past aside as well as anyone else,” Celegorm said, voice quiet but tone flat, expressionless. He sounded so unlike himself that Elurín glanced over at him in alarm. “But she won’t forget what I did to her brother. Nor should she.” He paused to kiss the top of Celebrimbor’s head, and then went into the bedroom. Maglor sighed; Celebrimbor just looked deeply unhappy. 

Elurín hadn’t forgotten about Nargothrond, exactly, but he hadn’t really thought about it until that moment—he had been caught up in Doriath—but of course that was only the last in a long line of terrible deeds done by Celegorm son of Fëanor. He had, though, forgotten that Finrod Felagund was the brother of Galadriel. He glanced at Eluréd, who shook his head warningly. Elurín bit his tongue, and then said aloud, “Celebrimbor, after breakfast, do you want me to show you our bathhouse?” Celebrimbor had bathed, of course, since his coming there—but washing out of basins was very different from a proper soak in a large tub. 

“Yes, all right,” Celebrimbor said after a moment, speaking quietly. “That sounds nice.” Maglor leaned over to murmur something in his ear, and he nodded at whatever it was. 

Elurín finished eating first, and went out to start the fires in the bathhouse, and to fill the tub. He chose soaps that Eluréd had brought back from Edhellond, fresh-smelling without being overpowering, and laid them out as Celebrimbor arrived, shivering a little with the cold winds that had picked up. “I feel as though I should be apologizing to you,” he said as Elurín turned to him. 

“You? For what?”

“For—in Nargothrond, I knew what my father was doing, but…”

“That was years before I was ever born—before my father was ever born. You need not apologize to me. What could you have done, anyway?”

“I don’t know.” Celebrimbor stared at the water in the tub, leaning against the door with his arms crossed. “Nothing, maybe. But I don’t know because I didn’t try.”

“You bear no responsibility for the actions of others,” Elurín said. “It would have never occurred to me that you should. You are not your father.”

“I’m my father’s son,” Celebrimbor sighed. “Even when I try not to, I follow in his footsteps—his and my grandfather’s.”

Elurín knew the ways in which he, too, was his fathers’ son—or at least the ways in which he was Daeron’s, and Celegorm’s. He could never know in what ways he was or was not like Dior except in looks. The thought made something hurt inside of him, and he tried to bury it under more pressing concerns. “Well, you don’t have to apologize to us. Or thank us, really. We’re—sort of family, in a way. Or something like it. Not just because we have a few cousins in common.”

“I suppose we are.”

“The water’s hot enough now. Do you want me to wash your hair for you?”

“You don’t have—”

“I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want to help.”

“I…all right. Can you also tell me how you got into Ost-in-Edhil to find me in the first place?”

“Mostly,” Elurín said as he helped Celebrimbor undress and step into the tub—he was still too thin and unsteady on his feet, and his wounds were still tender, “mostly it was because Gorthaur thought himself so secure that he let most of his people head off to destroy whatever was next, and all of his attention was focused on you. Really, we just sung up disguises like Felagund of old, and rode right in. And then Eluréd distracted him while I snuck into the hall to find you.”

“And—that worked?”

“We’re here, aren’t we?” Elurín smiled at him as he picked up a bar of soap. “He must have thought that Eluréd was attempting to be Lúthien—but he forgot that we are two, and not only one—and we were not there to demand his surrender. I suppose he forgot, too, the tricks our grandparents played in Angband.”

“He doesn’t forget,” Celebrimbor said, voice very carefully flat. “He just knows himself to be more clever than his old master.”

“Well, he wasn’t—not this time.”

“He will never forget this.”

“I know.”

“He is more powerful than you realize, Elurín.”

“I could feel his power,” said Elurín. “So could Eluréd. You do not need to fear that any of us will try to challenge him directly—Eluréd’s songs were a feint, meant to distract and nothing else. We knew what he would expect, so we gave it to him.”

“But that’s not…” Celebrimbor fell silent. Elurín didn’t try to ask him more. Instead he just lathered the soap through Celebrimbor’s hair, and felt the way he relaxed, slowly, in the hot water and under Elurín’s hands. After a while Celebrimbor said, very softly, “There are other reasons I should apologize—to you and to all the world. I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

“Did you swear an oath that bound you to kill anyone that stood between you and a few shiny rocks?” Elurín asked, trying to shelter behind flippancy as something very like dread started to coil in his chest at Celebrimbor’s words.

“No. Worse. Sauron—he wouldn’t—he would not be what he is now were it not for me, and my work.”

Elurín paused in reaching for a small pitcher to rinse out Celebrimbor’s hair. “Did you aid him willingly?” he asked. 

“Yes—but also no. I did not know, then, who he really was. But I had been warned not to trust him.”

Elurín moved around so he could look into Celebrimbor’s eyes. What he saw there was the memory of terrible pain, the weight of terrible guilt, and something that looked far too much like despair. “He has ever been a deceiver, like Morgoth before him,” Elurín said finally. “You were deceived—the fault for that lies in him, not you. If there was a way to defeat his master, there is a way to defeat him.” He was not Eluréd, with his steadfast and unyielding faith in the fact that they were all where they needed to be, doing what they needed to do—he was just stubborn, like those who had given him life and those who had raised him; and he had seen what the world could be like free from shadows and war, and he was not about to simply stand by and watch it descend into darkness again. “We are all of us here still alive when by rights we shouldn’t be. I don’t know what that means, yet, but it means something. And that gives me hope.”

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“Uncle—Tyelko—wait!”

Celegorm halted and turned. He hadn’t expected Celebrimbor to follow him. “Tyelpë—”

“You can’t just—” Celebrimbor stumbled, still weak and unsteady on his feet. Celegorm caught him, and found himself trapped in a surprisingly fierce embrace, even though it had to hurt Celebrimbor to do it. “Don’t just leave. Please.”

“I’m sorry.” Celegorm wrapped his arms around his nephew, careful of the still-healing scars. “I’m so sorry, Tyelpë.”

“I missed you,” Celebrimbor whispered. “If I’d known—”

“You couldn’t have known. I didn’t know.”

“But if I had, I would’ve looked for you. I looked for Maglor.” 

It had only been a minute or so, but Celebrimbor was already shivering—and he was barefoot. “Come on,” Celegorm said, gently turning him around so they could go inside. “It’s too cold to do this out here.”

“You came out here—”

“I was going to the stable. It’s warm in there, but the house is closer. Come on.” Celegorm ignored everyone else as he ushered Celebrimbor back inside and into the bedroom, where he bundled him into bed, trying and failing not to think about how he’d done this countless times when the twins had been younger. Or when Celebrimbor himself had been young and prone to sneaking out of bed to spy on the adults, back in those Treelit days and nights when there wasn’t anything they really needed to worry about him overhearing, so Celegorm had always pretended not to notice until he’d started falling asleep in his hiding place behind the sofa, and then either he or Curufin would scoop him up and carry him back to his bed, filled to overflowing with stuffed toys—bears had been his favorite, but there had been dogs and rabbits too; and for a while, because Caranthir had thought himself funny, an enormous stuffed lizard.

There were no such soft toys to be found here, and Celebrimbor was too big to carry like that now, of course. He had the broad shoulders of a smith, though he’d lost a lot of his strength and much muscle and fat over the weeks he’d spent as Sauron’s prisoner as his body did what it had to to stay alive, and then afterward as his appetite did not come back and he only slowly healed. At least, Celegorm hoped it was only weeks, and not months. He didn’t want to ask, was only grateful that it wasn’t years. The shadows in Celebrimbor’s eyes were still too much like those in Maedhros’. Maedhros had, in time, regained his strength and then some—he had been full of fire then, still young and not yet weighed down by centuries of war and worse—but he had never been the same. As for Celebrimbor—there was yet hope for him, but it looked to Celegorm as though Sauron had taken blades to his spirit as well as his body, and he didn’t know how to help. He hadn’t known how to help Maedhros, either—Maedhros who had recovered in body but never in spirit. Not really. There had been glimpses of the old Maitimo, sometimes, but they had been rare and had only gotten rarer, until after the disaster of the Nirnaeth there was nothing left but the Oath—and then, when that was over, it seemed there was nothing left at all. 

“What happened to you?” Celebrimbor asked. He sat with an arm around his knees, and reached out to touch the scars on Celegorm’s face, the same way Maglor had. Before finding Maglor on the beach Celegorm had hardly ever thought about them—had hardly thought of the fact that he was blind on that side, had just gotten used to not being able to see on his left, and relying on one of the twins or Daeron to make up for it, because he hadn’t really remembered what it was like to be able to see. He was weaker on that side in general, which had borne the brunt of the cave-in and the fight with Dior, but it had been a long time since he’d really felt it as weakness. Now he was all too aware of what the scars looked like, how they would appear to someone who had last seen him without them. And what that weakness would mean in the months and years to come.

“Menegroth caved in,” he said. “I got out, barely. I don’t remember how, and only know that an Ent found me in the snow afterward because Daeron told me. And—Dior laid some kind of curse on me. I woke up in Ossiriand not knowing who I was.”

“Maglor told me,” said Celebrimbor, “that you didn’t remember anything. But you remember now.”

“I only remembered a few weeks before Eluréd and Elurín brought you out of Ost-in-Edhil. If I’d remembered earlier—I’m so sorry, bear-cub. I should’ve been there.”

Celebrimbor blinked at the ancient nickname, and then leaned forward to hide his face in Celegorm’s chest. “I was almost certain before, but now I know this is real,” he sighed. “I haven’t thought of that name in—I can’t remember how long. There’s no way he could’ve…”

“Maglor didn’t think I was real at first either—and you have much more reason to question everything.”

“I’m glad you weren’t there,” Celebrimbor said, voice muffled. His hands fisted in Celegorm’s shirt. “I’m—you wouldn’t have—you would’ve died. He would’ve killed you and it would have been horrible.”

“I should have been there,” Celegorm said. “I should’ve done a lot of things. But I’m here now.”

“He’s going to be looking for me. If he finds you—”

“We’ve faced him before and gotten away.”

“You don’t understand. He’s so much stronger now—” Celebrimbor’s breath hitched. “And he—he hates me and he hates Elrond, and he’ll hate Elurín and Eluréd even more—”

“Yes, well, the feeling’s mutual. But he can’t find us now.” Celegorm gently pushed Celebrimbor back onto the pillows. “You should sleep, Tyelpë. You need all the rest you can get.”

“Please stay,” Celebrimbor whispered, grabbing his hand. “Please.”

“I’ll stay. I promise.” Celegorm climbed into the bed and slipped under the blankets. Even those few minutes out in the cold had seemed to sink under Celebrimbor’s skin, leaving him shivering long after they came back inside. “I love you, Tyelpë. Go to sleep. I promise, you’re safe.”

Celebrimbor fell into a fitful sleep. Celegorm lay awake, stroking his hair and listening to Daeron and Maglor play quiet music, only slightly muffled through the bedroom door. He didn’t move when Maglor came in, not until Maglor slipped under the blankets on Celebrimbor’s other side, so he was tucked between the two of them. They didn’t speak. Celegorm just reached over to grasp Maglor’s hand. He wasn’t sure when sleep took him after that. 

He woke early, and left Celebrimbor and Maglor still deeply asleep. Elurín came inside as he was restarting the fire, but he didn’t say anything. At one time Celegorm would have known whether Elurín wanted someone to chase after him or if he just needed time to himself before he was ready to speak of what troubled him. He didn’t know what to do now—not when he was the cause. So he said nothing and hoped that he was doing right, and tried to ignore the way that Eluréd sighed at both of them. 

He went out to get some fresh air, hoping it would do something to banish the dull ache in his head that had persisted on and off since the beach, and to splash his face with the frigid water in the stream—and came back inside to hear talk of Galadriel. To talk of her was to talk of Nargothrond, and he was not ready for that—least of all with Celebrimbor or the twins. So he escaped back into the now-empty bedroom where no one would see if he sat bent over for a few minutes with his head between his legs, until he felt like he could breathe again and get properly ready for the day.

As Celegorm twisted his hair into a proper braid—no reason to hide his face anymore—Daeron slipped into the bedroom, shutting the door softly behind him. He opened his mouth, and then hesitated. “What do you want me to call you?” he asked finally. “I’m tired of worrying that I’ll start a fight before I can even say what I want, just by addressing you.”

Celegorm wanted, more than anything, to hear Daeron call him Lossë—laughing or exasperated or worried but always fond. He wanted to somehow be himself, Maglor’s brother and Celebrimbor’s uncle, and also Lossenol who knew almost nothing of the terrible things in his past. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I don’t…it feels wrong, when you call me my real name. But—”

“Lossenol is as real as Celegorm or Tyelkormo,” Daeron said quietly. “Many people are given an epessë, or several, in their lives. Do you remember what I said of names, then?”

“They are not to be given lightly. I know. I know it wasn’t. I just—” He didn’t deserve it. He never had.

“You have still been yourself, all this time,” Daeron said. “Even if you answered to a different name. I’m sorry that I lied to you. When all of this is over, if you can’t forgive me, if you want—if you wish to part ways, I won’t argue. But we need to work together until at least we can reach Lórinand.”

The thought of parting from Daeron felt like another twisting of the knife in his chest. “Call me whatever you want,” he said finally, not looking at Daeron as he tied off his braid. “And—when this is over, whatever the songbirds want to do, I’ll do it.”

“None of us want to part,” Daeron said. 

“I think Elurín would disagree.”

“Give him time. You know he struggles with some things more than Eluréd.”

“He shouldn’t have to struggle with this. I deserve—”

“He doesn’t,” Daeron said. “He needs you, and he knows that he needs you. What happened between Doriath and now has not been rendered meaningless just because you remember what happened before.”

“It’s not meaningless but it’s tainted,” Celegorm said. “You don’t—to evil end shall come all things that we do—and I am cursed twice over—”

“Ossë lifted Dior’s curse. Unless you mean the Oath, but that is over too.”

“Is the Doom? Is my doom?”

“I don’t care what the Doomsman might have to say about it,” Daeron said, in a tone very similar to the one he’d used when he declared that he was going to swear a binding oath just to get Celegorm to listen to him. “But we have not come to the end yet, and I will not allow it to end as you fear—if it must end. I don’t want this life we’ve made together to end, Lossë.”

“What happens when it’s time for you to leave?” Celegorm asked. “To sail west? I can’t go with you. The Valar won’t allow it.”

“I won’t go without you,” Daeron said. “I don’t care how long it takes.”

“That’s—but what about your family? What about Menelas, or Nellas, or—”

“They’re safe. I think they will be happy, when they return from the Halls. I hope that Nellas has already found happiness. If I take ship and leave you behind I will not have that same assurance, and I can’t live with that. If a parting is truly what you want, and not what you think I should want, then I won’t argue. But if you are just going to use me to punish yourself for deeds long since past, then I will argue—I’ll argue until the end of time.”

Celegorm glanced over at him and then quickly away, unable to bear being on the receiving end of such a look. There wasn’t really a good word for what lay between them, him and Daeron, no good way to describe it except as the most precious gift Celegorm had ever been given. They weren’t brothers but they weren’t not brothers, and Celegorm wasn’t in love with him but he wasn’t not in love with him. The last time he’d felt anything even remotely as strongly for another person had been very different, and—

“Someone else loved me once, I think,” he heard himself say, “and all it brought him was darkness and death.”

“When you were Oath-bound?”

“Oath-bound and doomed—I have been doomed since the moment I drew my first—since I drew my sword in Tirion to swear that oath, and—there’s no reason to believe that has changed, whatever you think of the Doomsman.”

“I don’t agree.” Daeron crossed the room and took Celegorm’s face in his hands, as he had on the hilltop the night before. “Lúthien stared inevitability in the face and made it change, and I think her son did the same.”

“He meant to wound, Daeron. Death was too easy for me, he said.”

“And he has wounded you,” Daeron said, very softly. “I can see it. But wounds can heal, even if it’s slow—and in changing your fate he set the stage for more. Your survival saved my life—and it saved Eluréd and Elurín’s, and in their turn they have saved Celebrimbor, and who knows what his survival will mean?”

Celegorm sighed, and leaned forward until his forehead met Daeron’s. “Ossë—let us change the words to this verse of the Song, he said. I don’t think he meant to be any kinder than Dior.”

“I do not think Ossë is either kind or cruel,” said Daeron.

“I deserve cruelty more than kindness,” Celegorm whispered.

“No you don’t. And you won’t get it. Not from me.”

He wanted to believe that. He knew that he should believe that—but even after the night before, doubt lingered. Daeron would do what he thought he had to, to keep them all safe. Including lie. And he couldn’t forget what that lie had cost Maedhros—if he’d known the truth he could have gone after them, he would have gone after them, would have done whatever he had to do to stop Maedhros from casting himself into the fires of the earth after the Silmaril. And as for himself— “You know what I’ve done, Daeron. What I’m capable of.”

“Yes, I do, the good and the bad—and I’m still here.” Daeron stepped back. “Talk to Elurín, Lossë.”

“I have talked to him.”

“Keep doing it, then. Don’t make him think you’ve given up on him.”

Celegorm had meant to go hunting that day. They had good stores set aside for the winter—plenty even with two extra people added to the household, since Eluréd had gone to Edhellond—but he needed to be out in the woods, doing something more useful than just sitting around making his nephew and the twins uncomfortable. When Daeron left he finished dressing. When he emerged to find his bow, he found Maglor waiting for him. “Is everything all right between you and Daeron?” he asked. 

“Better than it should be,” Celegorm said. 

Maglor frowned at him. “What does that mean?”

“Just—nothing. We’re fine.”

“Tyelko—”

“It’s fine, Cáno.” Celegorm reached for him, and Maglor wrapped him up in a tight hug. He couldn’t believe that he’d ever taken this for granted—having his brother right there. “I told you, I didn’t want to drag you into my mess.”

“Tyelko, I’m just glad that you’re here to have messes to drag me into. Where are you going?”

“Just to see if I can bring back something fresh for dinner. I won’t be gone long. Won’t even leave Daeron’s Girdle.”

“Do you have to?”

“You,” Celegorm said, feeling Maglor’s ribs through the shirt under his hands, “are too thin. Yes, I have to.”

“I’m fine—”

“You aren’t.” He drew back to look at Maglor’s face—too gaunt, still with dark circles under his eyes. He wore the new clothes that Eluréd had gotten for him and they hung too loosely on him; he’d always been more slender than Celegorm, but this was different. He wasn’t so thin as to be truly alarming, but it was still painfully obvious that he had been going without a lot of things for a very long time. He kept running his fingers over the fabric of his shirt as though continually surprised by its softness. But more than that it was the way he both flinched away from and leaned into every single touch he received, the way he seemed startled whenever Daeron smiled at him, the way he held himself apart, unable to even pretend to be entirely at ease much of the time; the way he couldn’t really look either Eluréd or Elurín in the face. Celegorm wanted to ask when the last time was that he had gone among other people, but was afraid of the answer. “I’ll be back soon,” he said. “A few hours at most. I promise.”

“You don’t have to promise,” Maglor said. “Just be careful.”

Celegorm kissed his forehead. “Keep an eye on Tyelpë for me.”

“Is all well between you and Tyelpë?”

“I think so. For now. He’s…” Celegorm hesitated. They hadn’t yet spoken of their other brothers, not really, and he didn’t think either of them were ready to. But it needed to be said. “He reminds me of Nelyo. At Mithrim.”

Maglor nodded. “Me too.”

“We should have been there.”

“Yes, we should have. But we’re here now, and—that won’t make up for our absence, but at least we won’t make it worse. And at least now…” He had his thumb pressed into his palm, nail digging into the scars. Celegorm grabbed his scarred hand, pulling it away. “We’re together,” Maglor said, very softly. “We’ll figure out the rest as it comes.”

“We will. We’re all going to be fine.” As he said it Daeron came back inside, and Celegorm glanced at him. “I was right last time I said it,” he said, “and I’m going to be right this time.”

Daeron smiled, though it didn’t really reach his eyes. “I hope so,” he said. 

The woods were quiet, but there was still plenty of game even though he didn’t venture far. He brought home several rabbits, and sat outside to skin and dress them. Elurín came out after a little while to take the furs. “Elurín,” Celegorm said. 

“Not yet,” Elurín said without looking at him. 

“I love you,” Celegorm said anyway. Elurín paused for just a second, but said nothing before disappearing around the house. 

Inside, Maglor and Daeron were talking music by the fire. Celebrimbor sat on the floor by Maglor, wrapped in a blanket and resting his head on his lap as he watched the flames. Maglor had a hand resting on his head. Celegorm thought he wasn’t really listening to the words, and just drawing comfort from their voices. Maglor was smiling, and sounded more like himself just then than Celegorm could remember hearing him since—well. Sometime before the Dagor Bragollach, probably. Eluréd was in the storeroom, and emerged as Celegorm set the meat on the table. “That will make good stew,” he said, keeping his voice low. “It might be easier for Celebrimbor to eat—he hasn’t been, really.”

Maedhros had had very little appetite after Angband, too. “Maglor needs to eat more too,” Celegorm said, trying to tell himself to stop thinking of Maedhros. “Is Elurín—”

“He’ll come around,” Eluréd said.

“Should I chase after him or let him come to me? I used to know, but now I can’t tell.”

Eluréd thought for a moment, as he brought out carrots to chop for the stew. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “Let me speak to him tonight, but I think he needs a little more time.”

“I don’t want to put you in the middle—”

“I’m already in the middle, because I want to be. We can’t part again.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t blame you for running off,” Eluréd said. “I think I would’ve too—and it’s clear to me that you were meant to find Maglor.”

“It was clear to you before that we needed to go to Lindon.”

“No, it was clear that we needed to go north, and going to Lindon just seemed like the safest course. Then Ossë got involved, and things changed. We’ve spoken of going north in the spring, but the more I think of it the less certain I am that we should. Celebrimbor is only slowly regaining his strength, and it’s only going to get worse in Eriador unless something changes drastically—and the Enemy holds the Gap. We’re all good at passing unseen, but they’ll be watchful now, and there’s nowhere to hide in between the mountains.”

“We’ll see what it looks like come spring,” said Celegorm. “I’ll go north as far as the Gap to see, when the time comes—just to look. And as far as we know the Enemy doesn’t know anything about me or Maglor—we have that advantage.” There wasn’t much he could offer except his skills in woodcraft and his aim with a bow, but Maglor was as mighty a singer as Daeron, and with the twins they would be a formidable force, even going against Sauron as strengthened as he was. 

He thought that Celebrimbor might know more of that than he could or would say. But he didn’t want to press him for answers—not when he still seemed so fragile. He’d been trying not to think about Curufin, either, about what he would say if he were there, but that was as impossible as trying not to think of Maedhros. But he was glad to see that Celebrimbor and the twins seemed to like one another. Whatever reason Eluréd and Elurín had for going to Ost-in-Edhil the way they did, at least they didn’t seem to regret it.

He wondered, then, what Finwë and Thingol thought of all that had happened and was happening—of all the ways their children had both hurt and helped one another, all the different layers of hate and love that existed between them. 

It occurred to him suddenly to wonder what his father must think of him. Of the way he’d abandoned his Oath—could the tapestries show that he’d forgotten it? Would someone tell him? Would he care? Celegorm didn’t think he would. He thought of his father’s snarling rage in the wake of Losgar, after Maedhros had stood aside, and imagined even worse directed toward him and—

“Lossë?”

“I’m fine.” It didn’t matter what Fëanor would think. He was dead, and Celegorm could never return to the west, so they would never meet again; and if Celegorm regretted not being there to stop Maedhros at the end, or to save Amrod and Amras in Sirion or Curufin and Caranthir in Doriath, he did not regret never getting his hands on a Silmaril. He didn’t want to care what his father would think. He wanted to hate him. Except that it had always mattered, his father’s approval and all the ways he’d known that he hadn’t ever really had it, and he didn't know even now how to let it go. “I’m just going to go wash up.”

He retreated back to the stream and after washing his hands until he couldn’t feel his fingers anymore he just sat and stared at the water. Thinking of his father inevitably led to thoughts of his mother. Who wasn’t dead. Who had no idea, most likely, what had really happened to him, or to Maglor, who would only hear rumors of Celebrimbor as ships escaped into the west, who might never learn the whole truth if Sauron managed to overrun the world, succeeding where Morgoth had failed. 

“Tyelko?” Maglor came to kneel beside him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Do you often cry over nothing?”

Oh. He wiped his sleeve over his face. “What do you think Ammë would say if she could see us now?”

Maglor sighed, and then wrapped his arms very carefully around Celegorm’s shoulders. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I miss her too.”

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“How did my uncle forget who he was?” Celebrimbor asked Daeron after Maglor went outside to find Celegorm, who had been gone rather longer than it should have taken just to wash his hands. Celegorm had mentioned a curse, but nothing more, and Celebrimbor hoped that Daeron might be more forthcoming.

“Dior did something,” Daeron said. He had gotten up to throw more wood on the fire. “I don’t know what—and I don’t know what Ossë did, either, that lifted it, except that it was very painful.”

So much for being more forthcoming—but at least it seemed to be out of ignorance rather than a deliberate attempt to keep secrets.

“Ossë also almost drowned him,” Eluréd said from across the room.

It was very hard to figure out what lay between the four of them, and whether it was normal or if everything that had happened lately was the source of all the tension. He couldn’t imagine it was normal, not if they’d spent so many years together already. Celebrimbor glanced between Eluréd and Daeron, and wished he’d tried to get to know Eluréd and Elurín better in the beginning when they’d met just after the War of Wrath—or at least that he had asked Elrond about them later. Then he realized: “Did—Elrond has met him, hasn’t he? He’s known—”

“He does not know him well, and only knows him by the name Lossenol,” said Daeron. “He’s kept no secrets from you, I promise. I was the one keeping secrets.”

“But why? After—after Maglor and Maedhros took the Silmarils, wasn’t the Oath…”

“I should have spoken then,” Daeron said. He returned to his chair as Eluréd brought a pot to set over the flames, smelling of herbs and meat. “I know that. I’m sorry that I didn’t.”

“I do not think the discovery of a third son of Fëanor in the midst of that encampment would have been received well,” said Eluréd, sounding skeptical. “You should not have kept the secret this long, maybe, but I do not think speaking up then would have done anyone any good. Celeborn was already suspicious.”

“Celeborn knew—?”

“He met Lossenol, briefly,” said Daeron, “and if he was suspicious and disapproving of my taking up with a Noldo—and he did believe him to be a kinslayer even then—I do not think he ever suspected that he was Celegorm, who everyone believed to be dead. It was Galadriel I feared most, and I did manage to keep them from ever meeting. I will have much to answer for, though, when we meet again and all of this is over.”

“Not if Elurín and I have anything to say about it,” said Eluréd. “Did Nellas ever know?”

“No. She only knew as much as you did.” Daeron glanced at Celebrimbor. His eyes were dark with regret. “I’m sorry. Truly. For keeping secrets and for how many explanations you’ll need to sort through now to understand where your uncle has been all this time. Nellas was a friend of mine from Doriath, and she knew Eluréd and Elurín when they were children there. We reunited in Eriador, and she took ship into the west after the War of Wrath. You may have heard her name also in connection to Túrin Turambar.”

“I don’t mind,” said Celebrimbor. It wasn’t entirely true, but he couldn’t admit aloud how envious he was of the simple and happy life it sounded like they’d made for themselves. Or not the simplicity—he would not have been content with that—but the happiness. He’d been happy himself, for a long time—but he’d had to fight for it, and there had always been the shadow of grief lurking in the background, even at the height of his own power in his own realm when he’d made the most beautiful things with Narvi and his other friends and comrades among the Dwarves and the Gwaith-i-Mírdain. Who were now all dead, probably. Because of him. Because it was never going to last, no matter what they had told themselves in their hope and their pride and their folly. At least Narvi had not lived to see Annatar’s arrival. And it was worth admitting: “I think Eluréd is right. I’m not sure I would have been so happy to see my uncle if all of this had been revealed so soon after the War of Wrath, and I know no one else would have been. It would have just caused all kinds of trouble on top of everything else we were trying to deal with.”

His uncles returned, both of them quiet. Celegorm sat down on the floor so he could bracket Celebrimbor with his legs and loop his arms around his chest from behind. Celebrimbor leaned back against him gratefully, even though he was cold. The fire was warm, and Maglor and Daeron returned to their discussion about some ancient song. Elurín came in, and he and Eluréd joined the debate. Celebrimbor closed his eyes and wished he could pretend that this would last. Wished he could believe them all when they said that everything was going to be fine. 

That night he dreamed of Ost-in-Edhil, of the fires and the screams and Sauron coming with Annatar’s face, but twisted with malice that had never been there before—that couldn’t have been there before, that he should have seen, if it had really been there all along. He woke with a scream lodged in his throat, and two sets of hands on his shoulders, on his face, two voices murmuring his name. “Tyelpë, it’s all right,” said Maglor. The scars on his right palm were strange and smooth against Celebrimbor’s cheek. “It’s all right, we’re here. You’re safe.”

“It was just a dream, bear-cub,” Celegorm added. “He’s not here.”

“He’s found them,” Celebrimbor heard himself say. “He has them. The Nine and the Seven, and he—”

“Shh, Tyelpë.” Maglor smoothed his hair back out of his face. “You’re still dreaming—”

“No! He has them and—” He’d given them up, hadn’t he? He couldn’t remember. He’d thought about it, of giving him those lesser rings if it bought him time—bought Elrond time, and Celeborn, to get away. Bought Galadriel and Gil-galad time to hide the Three properly. Anything to keep the them out of his hands, because of Sauron got them he would take and twist them, warp them, and that would be worse than anything the other Rings could do. He’d taken what knowledge he had of the Three and he’d locked it in the deepest part of his mind and Sauron had not breached it—but now he couldn’t remember what he had given up instead. 

Maybe it didn’t matter. The Seven and the Nine had still been in Ost-in-Edhil—hidden, but not anywhere that wouldn’t be uncovered given enough time, which Sauron had in abundance now. He should have sent them away too. Should have destroyed them. Why hadn’t he destroyed them?

“What does he have, Celebrimbor?” Celegorm asked. “What is he trying to do?”

“The—the—we made—” The words got stuck in the back of his throat and he couldn’t say them. He felt as though Sauron’s hand was around his neck again, squeezing the life out of him, the One burning into his skin like a brand. He raised his own hand and found the mark there, a small raised burn scar—just one more way in which he was forever marked by the Enemy he had willingly let into his city and his home and— “I’m sorry,” he whispered. 

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Maglor said. 

“Don’t apologize,” Celegorm said at the same time. 

“But I—”

“Are there others who know?” Maglor asked, his voice so horribly gentle. “Are there others who know what he is after?”

“Y-yes. Gil-galad. Galadriel. El-Elrond. But—”

“Then rest assured that they are not idle,” Maglor said. “It is likely they think you are dead, and until we can reach them we have to trust that they will do what they must.”

He was supposed to be stronger than this, Celebrimbor thought as his uncles pulled the blankets back up, and Maglor started to hum a quiet, soothing song. He had survived the Darkening of Valinor, all the battles of the First Age, the fall of Nargothrond, the War of Wrath. He had built a city of his own and it had flourished. He had healed—he thought—the rifts between his house and those others who remained of the House of Finwë. He had made beautiful things, had reclaimed the Star of the House of Fëanor for his own. He’d thought that they could heal the whole world, and he had opened his doors and his arms to anyone who wanted to do the same no matter what they’d done before. He had listened to Gil-galad’s warnings and had recognized Galadriel’s suspicions, when Annatar had come—and then he had ignored every small twinge of uneasiness because he had wanted so badly to believe that all the smiles and all the generosity, all that brilliance, had been real. Of course he’d known that Annatar was someone who had seen Angband, who had perhaps served Morgoth—there was no true hiding of those shadows—but if the rest of them, those who had followed Celebrimbor’s grandfather and uncles, those of the House of the Mole, others who had escaped Angband, who carried the weight of their own dark pasts—if all of them could turn away from it and find something new, surely even someone like Annatar could too. 

Until he had felt the presence of the One, until he had heard those terrible words echo through his mind before he ripped Narya off his own finger—he had truly believed Annatar had been genuine. Even now he wondered whether it had really all been lies or if Sauron had hesitated, even for just a moment, before he forged that Ring of his own. He would never know, and that not knowing would forever haunt him.

In spite of Maglor’s songs he did not find sleep again. He just drifted, feeling cold in spite of both of his uncles with him, and then feeling the ache of his too-slowly-healing body. It got worse by the morning, so he couldn’t move without everything hurting almost as though his wounds were fresh again, and when he looked he was shocked to see scars, pink and fresh and tender, and not open and bloody wounds. Instead of trying to get up he pretended to still be asleep. Neither of his uncles tried to wake him, but after a few minutes he heard someone else come in, and then Celegorm speaking quietly, something about nightmares.

“He is badly wounded in spirit, Lossë,” Daeron said after a moment. Celebrimbor felt his hand on his hair. “It is going to take time.”

“Do we have time?” Celegorm asked.

“I don’t know. I think Eluréd and Elurín’s idea of going north to Lórinand is the best idea. Galadriel might help him better than we can. I will do all I can for him, but I think she has more experience in this than I do.”

“She can’t be more powerful than the songbirds—”

“She is not descended from Melian, as they are.”

“What does Melian—oh.”

“Yes.”

“…I’m going to find Sauron and I’m going to tear him limb from—”

“Lossë,” Daeron said as Celebrimbor couldn’t bite back the strangled sound that tore itself out of his throat. He opened his eyes to find Celegorm just turning away, back rigid. It was far too like when he’d turned his back at the last in Nargothrond, even though Celebrimbor knew—he did—that he wasn’t the object of his anger now.

As Celegorm left the room Daeron sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed. “He didn’t mean it,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“He meant it,” Celebrimbor whispered.

“He loves you,” Daeron said. “Can you sit up for me? I want to look at your injuries. My songs might help a little more than the birdies’.”

“Why do you call them that?” Celebrimbor asked, desperate for something else to talk about as he struggled to sit up. Everything still hurt, but once he was upright and holding still again it was a little better. Daeron helped him, hands very gentle. 

“Lossë—Celegorm—started calling them songbirds when they were children, when they were very quick to learn the bird calls he taught them.” Daeron’s smile was a little sad; it hadn't just been for fun, those lessons—not like the same ones from Celebrimbor’s own childhood, so long ago now that it seemed like someone else’s dream. “Then he named them Pínfileg and Pínamrent, our little sparrow and little lark. It was too dangerous for them to be Eluréd and Elurín. It might be again, but it’s a little late now to take that secret back.”

“Was this before or after they named him Lossenol?”

“After—months after. They gave him that name only days after he woke in Ossiriand with no memory of who he was. We needed to call him something, and they very swiftly grew very fond of him.”

“Why didn’t you take him back to my other uncles?”

Daeron didn’t answer immediately. He helped Celebrimbor out of his nightshirt, and ran light and gentle fingers over the healing scars across his chest and his arms, pausing over the rings of tender skin around his wrists where the manacles had rubbed them raw. The metal had been so cold that it had burned. Finally he said, “I would have, if we had not had the twins with us. I couldn’t risk taking Dior’s sons to Amon Ereb—I was very afraid of what they might have done, then.”

“Rightfully,” Celebrimbor murmured.

“Maybe. But he also did not want to return. I did not keep everything entirely secret—he knew from the start that he had been in Doriath, and what that meant, though he assumed he had just followed the Sons of Fëanor, not that he was one of them. It horrified him—and even as wary and distrustful as I was at that time, I knew it was not feigned.”

“I find it very hard to imagine,” Celebrimbor admitted. He shouldn’t, really—he could see how it haunted Celegorm now. But it was hard to imagine him not knowing it—not knowing himself, not wanting to return to his brothers. Whatever else could have been said of any of them in those days, they had been unflinchingly loyal to one another. It was why both Celegorm and Curufin had not understood why Celebrimbor had refused to leave Nargothrond with them—why they had both been so angry.

“Dior’s curse was meant to harm,” Daeron said. He picked up a jar of ointment, fresh-smelling and herbal, and rubbed it over Celebrimbor’s wrists. “And it has done harm, more than I think he intended, for I cannot imagine he expected his own children to get caught up in it, but it also saved all four of us. We would not have made it over the Ered Luin if your uncle had not been with us. Eluréd and Elurín would have died and I would have been caught and taken to Angband—I very nearly was.”

“Is that how you got that scar?” Celebrimbor asked, and then bit his tongue. “Sorry—”

“This one?” Daeron gestured at his throat. Celebrimbor nodded. “You needn’t apologize, but no—I got this much later, during the War of Wrath.” He set the jar of ointment aside and picked up a roll of bandages. “These wounds healing slowly—it does not truly surprise me—”

“I might never recover,” Celebrimbor said, because it wouldn’t do anyone any good to avoid that truth.

“In body, I believe you will,” Daeron said. “I’ve never been a particularly skilled healer, but I do know what I’m doing—certainly I know better now than when I first met Lossenol, and Eluréd and Elurín know even more than me. But the wounds to the spirit are worse, as I think you heard me say before. Eluréd and Elurín should be better able to help you than I am, except that the nature of the wounding and the nature of their healing is too similar. You will recover, because you are stronger than you feel yourself to be right now. But it will take time.” He finished wrapping Celebrimbor’s wrists, and turned his attention to the long scar that sliced down the middle of his chest. “I know how tempting despair can be,” he said. “You must not give into it.”

“You might not say that if you knew—”

“Unless you are going to tell me that you willingly and knowingly aided the Enemy, it doesn’t matter what you did.”

It was an almost eerie echo of Elurín’s words, and did even less to make him feel better. “I did willingly aid him,” Celebrimbor said. “And I should have known, I just—”

“It is always very easy to see what we should have done, when we look back. But if you were deceived, the fault lies in the deceiver.”

“Elurín said that too. I just…”

“I know. I do.” Daeron reached up to cup Celebrimbor’s face in one hand. “It will be a very long time before you can hear us say that and believe it—and that is why we will keep saying it, over and over, as long as it takes. All you need to do right now is rest and let yourself recover. You are allowed, too, to find happiness in being reunited with your uncles, and in being alive. If that happiness is fleeting and hard to grasp right now, that just makes it all the more precious.”

“And when he—when he covers all the world in darkness and succeeds where his master didn’t, because I—”

“Whatever it is you did, or think you did, he would have found a way regardless. He is clever and cruel, and it was a mistake for any of us to believe that he would simply fade away just because Morgoth was cast through the Doors of Night. He used your brilliance and your kindness. That does not make either of those things a weakness.” Daeron’s eyes were very dark, shining gently not with Treelight, but with starlight, and whatever he saw in Celebrimbor’s own gaze did not make him pull away. 

“My house,” Celebrimbor whispered, “is not known for its kindness.”

“That is no fault of yours—and for what it is worth I have found both Lossenol and Maglor to be very kind, when they are free to choose it. We are all of us so much more than our worst mistakes.” Daeron thumbed away a tear and then turned away, reaching for the jar of ointment again, as well as more bandages. “Today I think you should rest—sleep more if you can. I have songs that will chase away the dreams, if you wish. Or I can send Maglor in.”

“Can you do it?”

“Of course.”

When he finished with the ointment, which had some kind of numbing effect that brought incredible relief, and the bandages, Daeron helped Celebrimbor lay back down and drew up the blankets. His songs were different than the ones Maglor sang, and did not hold any memories either bitter or sweet. His voice too was very different—but it was lovely, and the lullabies were like another blanket that wrapped around Celebrimbor, soft and warm, and when real sleep finally took him, his dreams held nothing but the soft glimmer of distant stars. 

It was the middle of the afternoon when he woke, feeling a little more like himself and in much less pain. He still didn’t get up, just lay curled up under the blankets, listening to the voices through the door and to the quiet crackle of the fire on the small bedroom hearth. When the door opened he expected one of his uncles, but it was either Eluréd or Elurín instead. It was still difficult to tell them apart—except they wore almost-matching pendants carved of wood, one a maple leaf and the other oak. That helped a little, except he couldn’t ever remember which was which. “You should eat,” said this twin—Elurín, Celebrimbor was almost certain. When he ventured to ask he got a smile. “Yes, I’m Elurín. Do you want to join the rest of us or just go back to sleep?”

“I…don’t know.” He didn’t really want to be alone, but he did not want to have five pairs of eyes on him, all worried and everyone poised to leap up to help the moment he so much as blinked. “Could you stay?”

“Yes, of course. Do you wish for silence, or for me to fill it?”

Silence seemed suddenly unbearable. “Someone—I think someone said you had gone traveling in the east. Will you me about it?” 

Elurín's smile grew. “Gladly.”

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“Can I ask you a question?” Eluréd sat down next to Maglor near the fire. Elurín had taken Celebrimbor lunch and had yet to emerge; Celegorm had disappeared outside, as he usually did in the afternoons, and Maglor wasn’t sure where Daeron had gone either.

“Yes,” he said, glancing at Eluréd before returning his gaze to his harp, which needed tuning. 

“Well, several questions, actually.”

“I’ll answer any questions you have, if I can.”

“Why won’t you look either me or Elurín in the eye?”

The string under Maglor’s fingers snapped. He muttered a curse, and then sighed as he went to detach the ends. “Surely you can guess the answer to that,” he said. 

“I can, but even an informed guess is still only a guess, and I would rather know. You know I don’t really want to punch you in the face, don’t you?”

“I think if you really wanted to you would have already,” Maglor said. “And to answer your question—you must know how closely you resemble your nephew. Or he resembles you, I suppose.”

“I do. But I am not Elrond, and I think he would wish for you to look him in the eye when you meet again, too. Do you really not believe that he would be happy to see you? He asked us a long time ago to keep an eye out for you, when we went traveling. He didn't ask us to try to bring you back, but I think he wanted to.”

“As you say, that was a long time ago.”

“It was also a long time after you disappeared. I do not think his feelings will have changed in the intervening years. Were you not his foster father? That can’t mean as little to you as you seem to want to pretend.”

Maglor thought he would rather have been punched in the face than have this particular conversation. “It means everything. I raised him and I loved him—of course I loved him—but I was his kidnapper, not his father. I know what you call my brother, but the circumstances were very different.”

“I know. But I maintain that you have already paid for it. And he still loves you.”

“I’m here now, aren’t I?” Maglor looked up, meeting Eluréd’s gaze. It was too keen and too knowing—which was the real reason it was so hard. He found that he did not particularly like being seen so clearly after having gone so many years unseen. It was hard sometimes even to endure his own brother’s eyes on him. “I don’t know whether or not Elrond would be pleased to see me. I won’t shrink from a meeting, if I make it that far, but it would not be fair to either of us to go into it with—expectations.”

“I told Lossë not long ago that I do not find it so very hard to hold many conflicting truths in my heart. Few understand—even Elurín has trouble—but I think Elrond would agree with me that many things can be true at once and that does not make any of them less meaningful than the others,” Eluréd said. “It isn’t always easy, and of course it is never simple—but neither are we, with the blood of Maiar, Men, and Elves in our veins. What isn’t fair is depriving him of the one person left in the world who knew him when he was young—one of very few who can look at him and see him, and not just Eärendil’s son or Gil-galad’s herald. Or Lúthien.”

Maglor looked away, busying himself in coiling up the broken harp string. “Maybe,” he said. “Was there anything else you wished to ask of me?”

“I only wondered what you usually do at this time of year. It must be very cold by the Sea in winter.”

“It is, but there are a few places I usually go—inland a little ways, where there are caves in the hills, if I find myself near to the Ered Luin. At times in the past I have gone farther south, following the birds, away past Belfalas and the mouths of the Anduin. I would have done that this year, but it is often easy for me to lose track of time, and I tarried in the north longer than I meant to.”

“You tarried just long enough,” Eluréd said. Then he reached for a nearby box and pulled out a new harp string. “Here. We have plenty of extras. Elurín’s always breaking them.”

“Thank you.”

“I think there is much healing that we all need,” Eluréd said after a moment, as he watched Maglor attach the new string. “And I think also that we will not find it if we keep holding onto old hatreds or old fears. You do not need to be so careful around me or Elurín. Even without Elrond, we’re family of a sort. A very complicated sort, of course, that I am sure will confuse everyone we meet in the future, but that’s nothing new.”

Maglor watched Eluréd leave, feeling even less certain of his place there than he had before they spoke. After a few minutes Celegorm came back inside to curl up in the chair just behind where Maglor was sitting on the floor. “What’s wrong?” he asked. 

“Nothing, I think.” Maglor leaned back against him, closing his eyes when Celegorm’s fingers ran through his hair. It was so strange to be around other people all the time. Wonderful, to know that he just had to turn around to find his brother there, which he would never again take for granted, and that he could be sure of a friend in Daeron, but still strange. Sometimes he caught himself missing the solitude of the seashore—but he knew better than to say that out loud. Instead he said, “It’s so strange, isn’t it—that we both ended up raising a pair of twins.”

“I suppose.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Just…you talk about raising Elrond and Elros like you did it alone. But Nelyo was there, wasn’t he?”

Maglor sighed. They had to talk about Maedhros sometime, he supposed. But it still hurt. “He was, but—he kept his distance, as much as he could. It was easier when we still held the fort on the Amdram—not Amon Ereb, we were too few after Sirion to hold that, but a smaller one a little farther west. It was harder when we had to flee—south into Ossiriand, where we could hide in the hills and the woods, and you know there’s no real chance of avoiding anyone when camping like that. The boys were afraid of him, and he didn’t do very much to try to alleviate it except to keep what distance he could. He still cared—I refuse to believe he didn’t—but he didn’t—couldn’t—show it.”

Celegorm was silent for a moment. Then he said, almost whispering, “That doesn’t sound like him.”

No, it didn’t. “We all changed, you know that,” Maglor said softly. “And he…I think—after Doriath and especially after Sirion I was losing him a little bit more every day, only I didn’t—I didn’t want to see it, so I didn’t look, I chose to believe him when he promised not to leave me. I couldn’t bear the thought, so I didn’t think it. He rallied a little during the war, after we sent the boys to Gil-galad and started engaging with the enemy ourselves, but it didn’t last.”

“Maglor…”

“He was never the same after the Nirnaeth.”

“None of us were.”

“But it hit him the hardest. He’d dared to hope again and then—well. There was no hope, not for any of us.”

“You’re still here.”

“I don’t know why.” Maglor turned his head so he could look up at Celegorm, to see the way his eyes were a little too bright. “I’m sorry. But—I don’t think there was anything you could have done either.” When they’d gotten the Silmarils and Eönwë had let them go, they’d run as far and as fast as they could—and with the way the earth was shifting and breaking around them, Celegorm would have been too late whatever he had done, even if Daeron had shared the truth with him as soon as they heard what happened—but Maglor couldn’t make himself say that out loud. It would only make Celegorm feel worse, and might reignite a feud with Daeron. 

“If I’d found you—gotten to him in time—”

“Please don’t do this to yourself. I don’t think he ever wanted to be saved.” Maglor turned around fully and rose onto his knees as Celegorm seemed to crumple, curling forward. “I’m sorry, Tyelko. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s just not fair,” Celegorm whispered. “It should’ve been me. It was supposed to be me. Not him. Not any of you—”

“Don’t—”

“It’s true—”

“It’s not what happened. Please don’t do this to yourself. If you really had died in Menegroth then—then it all would have happened exactly as it did, only I’d still be on the beach alone right now. I wouldn’t even have known that Tyelpë was in danger. None of us would be here.”

Celegorm rested his head on Maglor’s shoulder. “How did the rest of them die?” he asked after a moment. “Was it—was it quick?”

“Yes, it was. I don’t think Moryo or Curvo even knew what had happened. And Ambarussa were together.”

“And—Nelyo…”

“It was quick. He was there one moment and gone the next. I don’t think he felt any of it.”

“He felt the Silmaril,” Celegorm whispered. 

“Not for long. And he’s in the Halls, now. They all are—there’s healing there, even for Nelyo. Maybe someday they will be permitted to return, and they’ll find Ammë waiting for them.”

“We won’t, though. Even if they do return, we won’t ever see them again.” 

“No, we won’t.” Maglor tightened his arms around Celegorm. “But we’re together. That’s enough. It has to be.” It was easier for him, though. He’d had years upon years to mourn, to come to terms with the fact that everyone he had known and loved was dead. Celegorm had only had weeks—and most of those weeks had been taken up with other more immediate worries. He hadn’t had any time at all to mourn as he needed to yet.

And, it seemed, he wasn’t allowing himself that time, even now that he had a chance. He pulled back after a few minutes, blinking back the tears he hadn’t let fall. As he did Eluréd came back inside, followed by Daeron, and Maglor watched Celegorm push it all down and put on a smile for Eluréd, answering to the name Atya without thinking about it, and immediately getting up when asked to help fix something on the stable roof.

Daeron sat down in his usual chair with a sigh, curling up and leaning towards the warmth of the fire. “Can I ask what you were speaking of?”

Maglor hesitated, and then felt foolish for doing so. “Our brothers.” 

From anyone else he would have expected—he didn’t even know what. Derision, maybe, judgment for mourning so deeply those who did not deserve it. But Daeron only nodded as though he had expected nothing else. “I’m sorry.”

“I just—it’s so fresh for him, and I don’t know how to help.”

“You’re here.”

“That’s not enough.”

“It was for me—just to have someone who understood even a little, someone who would let me feel what I needed to feel and then just be there. I’ve tried to do the same for him, because even if he did not want to remember, he still felt the loss. You are a far closer companion in this grief than I am. And—let yourself lean on him, too. Being alone is a very hard habit to break, but it’s worth it.”

“It is a habit I never thought I would form,” Maglor said after a moment. “Solitude was once a luxury.”

“In a house of seven brothers, I imagine so.”

“And numerous cousins all coming and going—and students and friends and, oh all kinds of visitors. Our house was never empty.”

“It sounds very chaotic.”

“It was. It was wonderful.” Maglor rested his arms on his knees and sighed. “And I think—if I were dropped back into the middle of it as I am now, I would run away the first chance I got.”

“If you need to slip away for a while, you can,” Daeron said. “Just—well, just don’t go far, and come back afterward.”

“I’m all right.” He could go outside and climb the hill behind the house, or follow the stream to the cold spring at its source, and sit for a while in the quiet. He didn’t need to go farther than that, or even to stay very long. It was nice, to have walls and a roof and a proper hearth and other people to fill the silence, even if it occasionally grew overwhelming. It was cozy rather than chaotic. He would never get used to it, though, if he kept running away—and he did not want to run away. “I do still want to learn how to craft a Girdle like yours.”

“I’m a little surprised you don’t already know,” Daeron said. “Did you not learn of the Valar as I learned of Melian?”

“I learned much of them, but nothing like that. There was no call for such things in those days.”

“Mm, I suppose that’s true.”

“Are you all right?” Maglor asked. They’d been back for some days now, but Daeron still seemed weary—even wearier than Maglor.

“Oh, I’m fine. I just haven’t been sleeping very well.”

“And you can’t even sleep in your own bed—I’m sorry—”

“It’s not the bed—please don’t apologize. Autumn and winter always leave me more tired than I should be, anyway.” Daeron kept his gaze on the fire. “I just thought we were done with all of this,” he said, voice very quiet. “With the darkness, with the war.”

“So did I.” Maglor picked up his harp again to finish tuning it. “You said before that you learned the same things Galadriel did from Melian?”

“More, probably—I was Melian’s student nearly all my life, until I left Doriath.”

“Could you make a—I think Celebrimbor said she uses a mirror of some kind? Could you look to see what is happening in the north?”

Daeron frowned at the fire. After a moment he said, slowly, “Yes…I think so. But I think I also said before that my talents lie in hiding rather than seeking.”

“But you could try.”

“Yes, I could try.” Daeron stared at the fire for a few minutes longer, though he didn’t seem to be seeing the flames. Then he sat up. “It will take me a little time to prepare what I need.”

“I don’t think there’s any hurry,” said Maglor. “None of us are going anywhere. I didn’t mean for you to do anything this moment.”

“There’s not much hurry, but the more we know before we leave this place, the better.” Daeron glanced at him with a small smile. “And now I am rather curious to see whether I really can do it or not. If I can’t, I think I can teach Eluréd. If nothing else, it’s something to do—and I need that.” 

Curious as to what Daeron actually needed for a mirror, which Maglor suspected was not actually a mirror the way he thought of it, he followed him outside and into the woods. One thing they had in common, besides music, was a fondness for woodcarving; that was something else they’d discovered at the Mereth Aderthad, when they’d spoken of crafting their own instruments. There was plenty of dead wood to choose from in the woods, but for this particular project Daeron seemed especially picky. Maglor picked up a few pieces of wood for himself, just to have something to do with his hands in the evenings, while Daeron contemplated others; they spoke little, but it was nice—simple companionship without any need to fill the silence. 

They returned to find Celegorm on top of the roof with Eluréd, and Elurín just stepping outside. “What are you doing?” he asked Daeron. 

“I’m going to try to make a mirror, to see what’s happening in the north,” said Daeron. “There’s a fallen tree I want to take a part of—will you help me carry it back?”

As Elurín and Daeron vanished back into the woods, Maglor went inside to check on Celebrimbor. He found him under a pile of blankets, seemingly asleep. When Maglor turned to leave he said, half-mumbling, “Uncle? Don’t go.”

“I didn’t mean to wake you, Tyelpë.” Maglor sat on the bed beside him, and Celebrimbor curled up against his side, sighing when Maglor stroked his hair. Maglor hummed an old lullaby until Celebrimbor fell back asleep, and then kept humming, hoping to keep the nightmares at bay. It had been a very long time since he had sung such songs, or sung to any audience but the sea and sky. As he carefully teased out a few tangles from Celebrimbor’s hair, Maglor thought of what he’d said the night before. The Seven and the Nine. What did that mean? What had he made that Sauron wanted so badly? Celebrimbor would have to tell them eventually, but Maglor thought that it was less that he did not want to than that he couldn’t, at least not yet. 

Celegorm had spoken of Maedhros, after his rescue from Thangorodrim. In some ways Celebrimbor was in far better shape—he had not been held nearly as long, and though his injuries were bad and would heal slowly, they would still heal more quickly than Maedhros’ had. But in other ways, more troubling ways, he was worse. He was older than Maedhros had been, and had endured much already—and from some of the things he’d let slip, Maglor thought that he was suffering the pain of a betrayal on top of everything else. How that had come about, and who had betrayed him, Maglor couldn’t begin to guess. 

It took Daeron several days to carve out a shallow wooden basin to his liking, and then to make a pedestal for it. “Metal would probably be better,” he said to Maglor as he sanded the bottom of the basin. “But I don’t have any metal bowls that would suit, and I certainly can’t make one. Hopefully the fact that I know wood well will make up for it. It’s the water that’s the most important thing, anyway.”

“Could you use clay?”

Daeron grinned at him. “You mistake me for a Noldo—I did not grow up learning every craft under the stars. I can only carve wood in the first place because I was very picky about my instruments. And anyway even if I knew how, I don’t have clay or a kiln.”

“Throwing clay is fun,” said Maglor, as Celegorm wandered over to see what Daeron was doing. “Very messy, though. Maedhros was good at it when we were young.”

“He was good at everything,” said Celegorm. “What are you making, Daeron?”

“I’m attempting to make a mirror, like one Galadriel would use,” said Daeron, “but do not get your hopes up. I’m not sure I’ll see anything in it but the bottom of the bowl and the reflections of the stars.”

“Worth a try though,” said Celegorm after a moment. “Unless anyone you want to find has the same protections around them that we do.”

“My protections are very particular,” said Daeron. “I doubt anyone I intend to seek would have thought to hide themselves from me—though maybe they are hidden from all. And maybe I will just not be very good at seeking.”

“You know I hate it when you do that,” Celegorm said with a sigh. 

“I’m not, I’m just being realistic—this isn’t like singing. Anyway, you pick up something you haven’t tried in nearly two thousand years and see how good you are at it.”

“Why didn’t you attempt something like this before?”

“Because I wasn’t good at the things I used to be, then, or as strong as I am now,” Daeron said, his gaze back on his work, his previous smile replaced by a frown; Maglor couldn’t tell whether it was merely one of concentration or not. “Seeking takes a strong will and—and a greater belief in your own power and your own success than I was capable of then. It is also uncertain, even if one is good at it. It might show what is happening in the present or it might show the past—or it might show one of many possible futures, and it is not always clear which one you are being shown. That’s why I was never any good at it—I hated trying to puzzle out what I was seeing. Galadriel was one who always wanted to know everything, so it does not surprise me that she took to it or that she remains skilled. Perhaps she can more clearly see whatever she wishes to see, as Melian could, rather than what the mirror chooses to show.”

“She has always been hungry for knowledge,” said Maglor, remembering how impatient she had been as a child, always wanting to learn more and more, wanting to pierce all the mysteries of the world. She had been very quick to learn and diligent in her practices and her studies, but ever her desires had outpaced them. He had not seen her since the Mereth Aderthad, and hoped that by now she had learned more patience. “I don’t think anyone has yet explained to me how you kept Tyelko from her notice—in the encampment of the armies of the West, I mean. It sounds as though you spent a long time there.”

“We’ve mentioned I was wounded by Sauron,” Celegorm said after a moment. “He had taken the form of some—I don’t know what it was, some winged creature—and he tried to grab Elurín and got me instead. You’ve seen my back—that’s where I got those scars. It took a very long time to heal, so after we arrived at the army camp I just…never left the tent that we were given, except once or twice.”

“Nor did I, much,” said Daeron. “I was badly wounded too—we both needed time to heal. I spoke to Galadriel a few times while we were there, and I kept waiting for her to ask questions, or to try to meet Lossë, but she never did. I suppose she thought there would be time enough in the future to puzzle us out, or maybe she just didn’t care. There were many other more pressing things that needed both of their attention—Celeborn only took real notice of us because of the twins.”

“He took notice of you too,” Celegorm said.

“Well, yes, but I am not his nephew. And you know I don’t care what sort of standing I have with the remnants of the Iathrim—”

“You’d better start caring, if we’re going to make for Lórinand come spring,” Celegorm said.

Daeron glared at him. “I know what I have to do, Lossë.”

Maglor somewhat regretted asking the question, but this seemed like a thread of an old argument that neither Celegorm nor Daeron expected to win. He could see why others thought them lovers—he might have thought them married if he did not know better. It was a reminder that he remained an outsider in this place, and he thought that it would be a long time before he started to feel otherwise. And because he still wasn’t used to watching what he said around other people he heard himself say, “Would you two like some privacy to work this out?”

Celegorm snorted and Daeron rolled his eyes. “I told you it’s not like that,” Celegorm said.

“So did I,” said Daeron, and just like that they were a united front rather than at odds. Maglor suddenly missed all of his other brothers with a keenness that nearly took his breath away—they would have had much to say about this, and all of it would have been funny. He missed their laughter—he couldn’t even remember what Maedhros’ had sounded like.

“If you say so,” said Maglor, hoping his voice didn’t betray anything more than amusement. Celegorm made a motion like he was going to punch him in the arm, but stopped short. Daeron rolled his eyes again. This was also a sign, though, that they were not only on speaking terms again but almost back to whatever normal looked like for them, and Maglor was truly glad to see it.

When they left Daeron to his work Maglor ventured to ask, just to make sure, “You two—you’re all right?”

“Yes.” Celegorm shoved his hands into his pockets. “It’s—I can’t forget what it cost me, but I understand why he did it, and it’s not worth losing him. That was the worst part, when I first remembered—the thought that I’d lose him. All three of them. I might still lose the twins, or Tyelpë, but…I don’t know, maybe not. I’ve got them at least until all of this is over. Whenever that might be, whatever happens. And I’ve got you.”

“You won’t lose Tyelpë,” Maglor said. “Not unless something truly terrible happens.”

“Not unless he fades, you mean.”

“Don’t say that—”

“I know the signs, Cáno.”

“So do I, and he isn’t.”

Celegorm reached out and caught his hand, halting them before they reached the house. “He might fade,” he said, meeting Maglor’s eyes gravely, “or he might be killed—or any of us or all of us might be killed.”

“You were the one who insisted we would all be fine.”

“And I’m going to do everything in my power to make that true. But—Dior’s curse was not to make me forget. I don’t know whether it’s been fully lifted or if this is just—I don’t know, the same thing taking a different form. I’m not going to give up, but—”

“What was the curse? You still haven’t told me—you never mentioned a curse at all until the night Daeron swore his oath.”

Celegorm pressed his lips together, and shook his head. “Not yet. Maybe when this is over—when I’m sure that it is over—maybe I can speak it aloud. But I can’t, now.”

“Is that—”

“No, there’s nothing stopping me. I just—I just can’t.” Celegorm squeezed Maglor’s hand before letting go. “I need to take Lhimmir out for some exercise. You should go inside, it’s cold.”

“I’m fine—”

“You’re as bad as Daeron. Just go inside, please.”

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Daeron watched out of the corner of his eye as Celegorm and Maglor stopped halfway back to the house to have a brief but tense conversation. It ended with Celegorm retreating alone to the stable. Maglor watched him go, and then came back over to join Daeron. “Is everything all right?” Daeron ventured to ask.

Maglor crossed his legs and pulled his cloak—new and thick and soft, another gift from Eluréd’s venture to Edhellond—around his shoulders. Daeron watched him rub his fingers on the edge of it before he said, “On the hill stop, when you swore your oath…”

“That’s over, you know.”

“Yes, I know—but Tyelko said something of a curse. And he mentioned it again just now. I don’t—what was it that Dior did?”

Daeron set his tools down and sat back on his heels. “I thought he told you.”

“I suppose I guessed that it had to be more than just—injuries, bad as they were,” Maglor said, looking away toward the stream. “But I did not really want to think about it.”

“I don’t really think I can answer your question,” Daeron said, thinking back. Celegorm had only spoken to him of it one other time, very briefly, but it had not been anything that shed light on what Dior had actually done. “If he remembers better what exactly it was Dior said or did, he has not shared it with me. It…I could see it, like a shadow behind his eyes. I could see the Oath too, though after a time I had to look more carefully because his forgetting made it retreat—for the most part, anyway. But the curse—it reminded me a little of Melian’s Girdle, keeping all his memories locked away, and I long suspected that Dior had had something to do with it, though I can’t guess what his intentions were, or whether he even did it on purpose. Medlinel—a healer I knew, one of the Laegrim—tried to look at it, and she thought that it was purposeful, but could see nothing else before I stopped her, because even her looking hurt him terribly. She glimpsed the Oath, too, and that concerned her far more, though she didn’t know what exactly it was.”

“Do I know that name? Medlinel?”

“You or your brothers might have met her sometime during the Long Peace, I suppose, in Ossiriand; I knew her long ago before the Girdle was raised, when Doriath was still Eglador, and she came to learn from Melian. Her brother was Denethor. She led her people east to rejoin her father around the time Lossë and I took Eluréd and Elurín over the Ered Luin. For all I know she still dwells in the Greenwood, or perhaps in Lórinand. She’ll have much to say if we meet again, I’m sure.”

Maglor looked amused in spite of himself. “Not a friend of yours, then?”

“No. We never were, really, but she deeply disapproved of my saying with Lossë, especially with the twins. She would have taken them east with her, only they refused to go be parted from either one of us.”

Maglor smiled again, a little sad now. “I know just how stubborn a pair of six-year-old twins can be. Twice over, for Ambarussa were even wilder. But—you know what to look for, better than I. Is the curse still on him?”

Daeron blinked. “Does he think it is?”

“I don’t know. I think so, and now I don’t know whether to fear it or not.”

“The shadows are gone, and obviously he remembers who he is, but I have not looked any closer.”

“Will you? Please? Only—don’t make it obvious? I’m not sure he’ll be pleased with either of us for speaking of it behind his back like this.”

“Yes, of course.”

Daeron finished carving the basin that afternoon, and left the rest for later; he was cold, and still tired, and the wind out of the north had something in it that made him uneasy. He couldn’t tell if the faint smell of smoke was real or only his imagination. Inside he fell into a doze near the fire, and only realized it when Eluréd came to rouse him. “Go to bed, Ada. You’ll hurt your neck sleeping like that.”

“I’m fine,” Daeron murmured as he sat up, and then he winced, feeling stiff muscles protest. 

“Oh,” he heard Maglor say. “That’s what you meant.”

“You’re both awful,” Celegorm replied, and he caught Daeron’s arm when he stood. “Come on, Daeron.”

“I can walk—”

“I know.” Celegorm still led him upstairs and sat him down on Eluréd’s bed before joining him with a comb. Daeron let his eyes fall shut again, mind drifting as Celegorm combed out his hair and braided it for sleep. It was an old routine, and usually they would turn around and Daeron would return the favor, but when he was done Celegorm pushed him down onto the pillows. “How bad is it this year, Daeron? Tell me the truth.”

“I’m not going to fade, Lossë.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Daeron forced his eyes open and reached for Celegorm without thinking. His hands were warm, calloused and strong. “I’m frightened,” he whispered. “Just—stay with me. Please.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” 

Daeron hadn’t meant to ask him to stay there, that night—he had been thinking of Celegorm’s apparent belief that they would inevitably part ways someday, maybe someday soon—but Celegorm moved away from the bed only for a moment before returning to climb in behind him, curling around Daeron’s back the way both of them had grown used to over so many years, and the way he hadn’t since the night before that terrible, fateful day on the beach. Daeron felt his body release tension he hadn’t even known he carried, and then felt a kiss pressed to the back of his head. “Go to sleep,” Celegorm whispered.

He slept, deep and dreamless, and woke only in the morning when Celegorm stirred. Eluréd and Elurín were in the other bed, curled up with one another like they had slept as children; outside the dawn was still dim and grey. Daeron rolled over to see Celegorm lean over to kiss each of the twins—also as he had when they were children—though back then he hadn’t turned away looking like he was already grieving their loss. “Lossenol?” Daeron whispered.

“Go back to sleep.” Celegorm leaned over to kiss Daeron’s forehead next. 

He tried, but couldn’t, and soon gave up. Like Celegorm, he paused to kiss the twins, disliking the way both of them frowned even in sleep, and then went downstairs. It still felt strange to go through the motions of normal life—of daily chores and mundane routines—while the world was burning in the north. He’d felt similarly in the years leading up to the War of Wrath, then they knew something was coming but did not yet know what. But the horses still needed care and exercise, the floor still needed sweeping, and they all needed firewood, and hot meals. Especially Maglor and Celebrimbor. Maglor had little appetite because he was too used to going without. Celebrimbor’s lack of interest in food had a different source, but they were both problems; while Maglor could be bullied by Celegorm into eating more, they all had to be more careful with Celebrimbor, though Daeron suspected—hoped, even—that he would soon start to chafe under that care. 

Once everyone was up and Maglor and Celebrimbor had eaten enough of their breakfast that Daeron thought he could stop worrying at least for that morning, he left them and went back to his carving. He had sanded the basin as smooth as wood could go, and now he finished it with some oil, giving it a shine, and set it aside. The pedestal was easier; he kept most of the shape of the log, and just evened out and carved signs and sigils into the top as well as a shallow indentation where the basin could rest, singing quietly as he worked. He thought of Melian as he carved, and wondered where she was, what had become of her, whether she and Thingol had been reunited in the west. Whether she ever spared a thought for him. As he finally rubbed oil into the pedestal, clouds moved in, and he had to stow the basin and pedestal in the stable when it started to rain. 

“Is it finished?” Eluréd asked when Daeron returned to the house.

“Yes, but I’m going to wait for the next clear night to try to see anything.” He felt oddly nervous about it—more nervous than just trying to do something he had not attempted in many years, and had never been any good at it. He wasn’t sure what he would see, was the problem, and he dreaded having to untangle terrible possibilities from terrible realities afterward.

Unfortunately—or fortunately—the rain persisted for days, and when it wasn’t raining it was overcast. Such was the way of winter. None of them felt restless, even cooped up inside, all of them just glad to be somewhere warm and dry. They had their instruments, and both Maglor and Daeron knew many and varied songs to fill the evenings. Celegorm wasn’t much of a singer but he was a good storyteller, and the twins could do both. Celebrimbor had little to share himself, but he listened intently. Daeron had a small pile of wood that he could carve into little figures as they sat by the fire and spoke or sang, keeping his hands busy as the rain drummed on the windows and the winter dragged on. The tension in the house eased a little; Elurín started speaking to Celegorm a little more, though never about anything really important. The distance hurt both of them, but Daeron didn’t know how to bridge it—he’d done all that he could in encouraging both of them, and trying to force it would only make Elurín withdraw even more.

When they weren’t telling tales or making music, Daeron taught Maglor how he had sung up his Girdle around their house, and in return Maglor taught him the songs of power he’d once used as he patrolled the front lines of Beleriand, bright and powerful songs that had once sent entire battalions of orcs scattering into the tall grasses of Ard Galen. Then he taught Daeron the songs of his youth in Tirion, the ones meant for nothing but pleasant evenings full of dancing and laughter. Daeron taught him the same sort of songs that had once filled the glades of Eglador beneath the stars. 

There was little mood for celebration when Midwinter came around, but Daeron made small gifts for everyone and the twins found holly branches and boughs of fir to decorate a little, and Celegorm brought out the spices and bottles they had been saving to make mulled wine.

Among the small pile of things Daeron had made were a new knife handle for Celegorm, and intricately carved beads for Eluréd and Elurín to string together or weave into their braids. For Maglor and Celebrimbor, he had made leaf pendants to match those the rest of them wore. It only seemed right. For Maglor he had carved an aspen leaf out of that pale wood, and for Celebrimbor he had chosen holly. Eregion was no more, but it was worth remembering. Celebrimbor accepted the pendant with quiet thanks and turned it over in his hands, rubbing his thumb over the smooth and polished wood, his expression hard to read. Maglor just looked surprised to have been given anything at all, which was troubling in a different sort of way.

Celegorm had been making things too. “Daeron,” he said, and when Daeron turned he tossed over a staff, sturdy and sanded smooth.

“Oh not again,” Daeron protested, mostly so Eluréd and Elurín would laugh at him. “You know I hate this.”

“It’s that or a sword.”

“I’m still not going to be any good—”

“If you can keep up with me you’ll be good enough to crack an orc’s skull.”

“If you’ll remember, I never did actually manage to crack anything’s skull, and it wasn’t for lack of trying.” But he let Celegorm drag him outside into the drizzling rain for a quick refresher; it had been years since he’d even carried a staff, let alone tried to practice with it. “This is just revenge, isn’t it?” he asked when Celegorm finally let up, both of them wet and Daeron shivering. 

Celegorm grinned. It was a little sharper than normal, but that was all. “Maybe a little. But you really do need to get back in practice.” And before Daeron could say anything or rehash an old argument over it, the smile disappeared and Celegorm said, very seriously and quietly, “I don’t know how many times I can almost lose you before it breaks me, Daeron. There’s nothing else I can do about it so—just humor me, please?”

“Will you two please come inside?” Maglor said from the doorway. “I’m feeling frozen just looking at you.”

“Yes, coming,” Celegorm said, but he didn’t look away from Daeron.

“You aren’t going to lose me,” Daeron said, but he knew even as he said it that it was no different from Celegorm insisting that they were all going to be fine—no different than all of them insisting that they would never part ways again, when they all knew that it was more than likely they would have to, for reasons good or bad or worse. He also took that moment to look at Celegorm—to really look, as Maglor had asked him to—and he found nothing there, no trace of the shadows that had hovered behind his good eye for so many years. He looked harder and still found nothing—there was no power laid upon Celegorm now, except the lingering effects of the Doom of Mandos that clung to every Noldo yet dwelling in Middle-earth, but even those were fading away, nothing more than bits of floating gossamer just waiting to be dislodged by the right breeze.

Inside they changed into dry clothes, and Daeron found himself tucked between Eluréd and Elurín with a cup of warm mulled wine in his hands. He let them fuss a little as he sipped it, and watched Maglor fuss a little over Celegorm, who refused the wine and just curled up to lay with his head on Maglor’s lap. Celebrimbor was already leaning against Maglor’s other side. He said something and both Maglor and Celegorm laughed at it. It was cozy and homey and Daeron found himself almost mourning the loss of it already.

The next evening the clouds broke at last; the sunset was visible over the mountains for the first time in weeks, the scattering clouds painted orange and pink limned with gold. “Tonight?” Eluréd asked Daeron as they stood atop the hill watching it. 

“Yes, tonight.” 

“You don’t sound as though you want to do it.”

“I’m afraid of what I will see.” Daeron sighed and turned to make his way down the hill. Eluréd followed. “I’m also unsure that I will see anything. But I’ve taught you all that I know about it, so you and Elurín can take a turn if you wish, whether I am successful or not.”

Celegorm, Maglor, and Celebrimbor joined them as Eluréd and Elurín set the basin and its pedestal by the stream. Daeron knelt to fill a pitcher; it was very quiet, but for the flow of the water. He focused his thoughts on Eriador, on Elrond and Gil-galad, and on Celeborn, on the present and not the future, and carefully poured the water into the basin. Once it settled he leaned forward and blew over the surface, making the water ripple gently for a moment as his breath formed a small and short-lived cloud over the surface, and then when it stilled again, he leaned forward and looked. 

At first he saw nothing, only the patterns of the wood. But as he let his eyes unfocus he could see the reflections of the stars, and then, slowly, ghostly images passed across the surface of the mirror as though he were looking through a clouded window. Very slowly they became a little clearer, but he still could not make out much detail, only enough to recognize faces and guess at what sort of place they were in. He saw Elrond, blood staining his clothes, bending over someone in what seemed to be a bed, lips moving and expression set and grave. He glimpsed Celeborn with his arm in a sling, standing with Elrond over a table, gesturing toward it as they and a few others spoke together. He saw Gil-galad, not with either Celeborn or Elrond, armed and armored, with a healing cut over his cheekbone, in the middle of an army camp being hurriedly packed away. 

He glimpsed Sauron stalking through the halls of a once-lovely building, his fair features twisted into a scowl, eyes flashing fire-red. He was looking for something, but he hadn’t found it. Then he saw him upon a battlefield, something golden flashing on his finger as he gestured to his troops to move ahead, toward the banners of Gil-galad and Círdan in the distance. 

“Elrond is all right,” he said as he straightened. “But he is not with Gil-galad—I do not know where he and Celeborn are. Gil-galad is, I think, in the field. So is the Enemy. It seemed to me that he has turned his attention fully to Lindon, rather than continuing to try to seek for us, though I suppose he might have servants doing that instead.” 

“Did you see Galadriel?” Celebrimbor asked.

“No, but I did not try—you have said she is in Lórinand?”

“Yes, but she might have crossed back over the mountains.”

“If she did, I did not see it.”

“This would be much easier if we had a palantír,” Maglor said. 

“Probably for the best that nothing else our father made has come to these shores,” Celegorm said. “But if Eregion has fallen, Lindon hasn’t. That’s something.”

Daeron stepped away from the water so Elurín could take a turn. Celegorm wrapped an arm around him, and Daeron leaned against him gratefully. His head ached, and that look upon Sauron’s face—not the present, but he thought from months before in Eregion—would haunt his dreams. “Ugh, nothing but mist,” Elurín said after a few minutes.

Eluréd took his turn, gazing longer than Elurín had, and then tipped the basin back into the stream. “I saw Elrond,” he said. “He is in a valley somewhere—somewhere near the Misty Mountains. It’s beautiful, and I think very well hidden. The Enemy will not find it.”

“Could we find it?” asked Celegorm.

“I think I could,” said Eluréd, “but there are many leagues and armies between it and us. I also glimpsed Galadriel; she is still in Lórinand, or at least she is somewhere that looks untouched by war, and I can’t think of any reason she would travel to the Greenwood.” He paused, and then said, “There was also—I think it was a glimpse of the future, as you warned us about, Daeron.”

“What was it?” Daeron asked. 

“Sauron—somewhere in the east, past the Sea of Rhûn, I think, if I recognized the buildings and the clothing correctly. He stood before a young king upon a throne, and he was offering him something. It was small, I couldn’t see what it was, but everyone seemed very pleased by what was happening, which makes me uneasy.”

Celebrimbor flinched, and Maglor reached for him. “Let’s go inside,” Maglor said, “and—Tyelpë, I think you need to tell us more of what lies behind all of this.”

Inside Eluréd handed around mugs of tea and Daeron curled up against Celegorm’s side. Celebrimbor sat next to Elurín, and Maglor settled on the floor at his feet. “Tyelpë,” he said. “We can’t do anything if we do not know what we are facing. How does Sauron know you so well—what was he trying to get from you?”

Celebrimbor didn’t answer immediately. He kept his gaze lowered, somewhere around his knees. “When I built Ost-in-Edhil,” he said finally, “I turned very few away. Among the Gwaith-i-Mírdain there were those who followed us—you, I mean—and those from the House of the Mole, and some who had once been enslaved in Angband. There were Dwarves and Men—Edain and Easterling—and Elves, Sindar and Noldor and some Avari who ventured past the Misty Mountains when they heard of us. Galadriel and Celeborn helped me found the city, and for a long time we worked well together. I had pledged loyalty to Gil-galad, but he had very little to do with the running of the city or of Eregion. We did much trade with Moria, and I had many friends among the Dwarves there.

“Then—Annatar came. He went first to Lindon, but both Gil-galad and Elrond distrusted him. He came to Ost-in-Edhil, and I had been warned but I also—I wanted to give him a chance. I knew he wasn’t really an emissary of the Valar as he claimed, but I thought that he only feared the truth would see him rejected before he could prove himself. He seemed to want all of the same things I did. To heal the world after the destruction of Beleriand, to make Middle-earth just as safe and as beautiful as Valinor. To just—I just wanted to make the world better. So I let him in, and I watched him carefully for a while—and he never did anything that would have made me suspect he was anything other than genuine.”

“But he wasn’t,” Celegorm said, his arm around Daeron tightening a little.

“I don’t know,” Celebrimbor said. “Even now, I can’t—I can’t believe that it was all feigned. And it was not his idea alone. The r—the—the rings.” He paused for a moment, and then said, “I’m sorry, it’s—I spent so long trying to say nothing of them that it’s hard now to make myself speak.” He took a breath, and the rest of them waited. Maglor rested his hand on Celebrimbor’s knee. “We made dozens of them as we perfected the craft—of imbuing them with power. Power to help and to heal, I thought. Then we made the Seven, meant for the Dwarves, and Nine for Men. As we finished the Nine Annatar was acting strangely, acting—I don’t know. I would almost have said he was nervous, as he never had been before, or burdened with something, but he did not confide in me. And by then that too was strange. Then he left—abruptly, hardly stopping to say farewell or to tell me where he was going. It wasn’t long after that, that I foolishly gave Durin one of the Seven. And then—then I made the Three. Vilya, Narya, Nenya. Annatar and I had spoken of them before he left, of rings for Elves, but I did not use any of those plans—but I did use the arts that we had designed together, some things that he had taught me. I did not want to wait for his return, and also I wanted them to be my own work—I thought they would be my Silmarils, but…” He faltered. Elurín reached for his hand. “I knew when he first put on the One. I was wearing Narya. Others in Ost-in-Edhil were wearing some of the lesser rings. We knew immediately what he had done and—who he really was, for he could not hide it, not through the power of the Rings. One ring to rule them all, one ring to find them, one ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them, we heard, in a voice that was Annatar’s but also not. Even the Three that he had no hand in making would fall under the sway of the One. I should have destroyed them all, but—I didn’t. I don’t know why. I warned Durin and I ordered the lesser rings destroyed, though I don’t know for sure if all were accounted for. The Nine and the remaining six of the Seven I hid. The Three—the Three I sent away, to Gil-galad and Galadriel. I don’t know what they’ve done with them and I don’t want to know, as long as they don’t put them on.”

Daeron knew nothing of objects of power. The closest he had ever come was the mirror they had used that night. He looked at Maglor, and then at Celegorm, who each knew more than he did, and they both looked very grave indeed. 

“You were deceived,” Elurín said quietly. “I’m not sure it matters now whether he was genuine, in the beginning. He will not change course now.”

“No, he won’t,” Celebrimbor whispered as he rubbed at a small burn mark on his neck.

“I’m sorry.”

“I was warned,” Celebrimbor said heavily. “I should have listened. I fear he was behind the arguments that drove Galadriel to leave…”

“Most likely,” said Maglor. “He might think himself more clever than his master, but the discord of Melkor has only one note, and it will repeat itself over and over.” He caught Celebrimbor’s hand in both of his when he lowered it back to his lap. “But I do not think you did wrong in giving him a chance, Tyelpë. He could have chosen another course, changed the key of his life’s song. It is not your fault that he did not.”

Celebrimbor was silent for a long time. Then he said, very quietly, “He would not have been able to make the One without me. Nor I the Three without him. It’s—they are the greatest things I will ever make, and they are tainted and useless.”

“That is not your fault,” said Eluréd. “Not when you acted in good faith.”

“But you don’t—”

“Celebrimbor.” Daeron sat up and set his mug aside. “You are chilled and you are still weary. Let me help you to bed.” Celebrimbor looked at him, startled, but rose to follow him into the bedroom. 

“Daeron,” Celegorm began, starting to rise, but he sank back down when Daeron shook his head. 

In the bedroom, Daeron lit a lamp and sat Celebrimbor down. He sat behind him and started to unravel his already-loosening braid. It was often easier to speak this way, when one did not have to see the other’s face. “Loving him does not make you like him,” he said after a moment. Celebrimbor stiffened. “It does not matter what sort of love it is—I make no insinuations.”

“Was,” Celebrimbor said after a moment, voice faint. 

“Is,” Daeron said. “I know you do not love what he is now, but you love who you thought he was—who he may have been for a while in truth—and there should be no shame in that, Celebrimbor, as there should be no shame in mourning what you have lost—all that you have lost, including him. You cannot simply stop loving someone the way you can blow out a candle.”

“We speak of Sauron, remember,” Celebrimbor whispered. 

“We speak of someone who, it seems to me, came so very close to choosing a different and better path—and he only got that close because of your kindness and open heart. If we were to ask you to simply pretend that there was nothing meaningful in that friendship, we would be even crueler than he is. Let yourself grieve, Celebrimbor. Do not deny yourself either the love or the sorrow, lest it fester and turn to bitterness.”

“I just—I am so tired of mourning those who do not deserve it.”

“Deserving has nothing to do with it,” said Daeron. “I think all who turned down such dark paths should be mourned. Imagine what could have been had Melkor not chosen as he did. That is worth grieving. Your father is worth grieving too—and your uncles, and your grandfather, and yes, even Annatar. No one in this house will censure you for it.”

“Others will.”

“Maybe,” said Daeron. “But you will not be alone.” When Celebrimbor twisted to look at him in confusion, he smiled a little. “There are many who will question me, too, for loving someone they think monstrous. The difference is that when it was offered, your uncle took his second chance. I am sorry that Annatar did not.”

“We will all be sorry for it, and for what I did to further his—”

“Betrayal is the fault of the betrayer, not the betrayed—I told you, we would all say it as often as you need to hear it. Your vision for your city was beautiful, Celebrimbor, and that it was taken advantage of by one more cunning and powerful than you or Galadriel or anyone else is not your fault. ” He gently turned Celebrimbor back around so he could finish braiding his hair.

“We weren’t lovers,” Celebrimbor said after a while. “Though I think some suspected we might be. And—they might have been right, given more time. I don’t know. I never really thought about it like that.”

“I’m sorry,” said Daeron softly. “Truly. And if you need to speak of it—any of it—you can come to me. It might be easier to say certain things to me than to either Maglor or Lossë.”

“Thank you. I’ll remember.”

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As Celebrimbor got stronger and started to feel a little more at ease around them, especially after he spilled the truth of the rings and seemed to feel as though he’d shed some great burden, Elurín started dragging him outside to walk through the hills or the woods whenever the weather was good enough for it. Celebrimbor couldn’t go fast or far, but Elurín thought every little bit would help. “You need to build up your strength,” he said, “and walking is the easiest way to do it. If we leave it up to Lossenol, he’ll just shove a stick in your hands and try to hit you for an hour every day.”

“I should probably build up that strength again too,” Celebrimbor pointed out as they stepped outside, finding Celegorm doing just that to Daeron, who slipped in the frosty grass and went down with a yelp. Celegorm laughed at him, but his grin faltered when he glanced up and caught Elurín’s eye. They’d come to a sort of uneasy truce. Elurín could speak to him about normal everyday things without being cold or standoffish, mostly, but he didn’t know how to close the distance. He couldn’t make the name atya come out of his mouth.

Lossenol and Celegorm still seemed like two very different people to him, and he still didn’t know how he was supposed to just—forgive Doriath. Eluréd could talk about many things being true all he liked, but that did not make them any easier for Elurín to hold in his mind or his heart at the same time. It still felt like the worst of betrayals, now that he knew the truth. And yet…

As they passed into the woods, their footsteps silent over the pine needles and leaves, Celebrimbor said, “Can I ask…” 

“Your uncle killed my father,” Elurín said after Celebrimbor trailed off and did not seem to know how to finish the question. “And then he forgot who he was and—and raised Eluréd and me, and we were happy, for such a long time. It’s—I still don’t know how to balance those things.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“That’s not what I meant. I just know how complicated it can be. My family, I mean—loving them.”

“It never was simple. I just thought that I understood the ways in which it was complicated, and then…it got worse. Eluréd can do it, but I can’t. And if I try to speak to him about it I’ll just lose my temper, and that won’t solve anything.”

“It might make you feel better.”

“No,” Elurín said. He kicked a clump of leaves and watched them settle back down onto the forest floor. “It never does, really. It’s just—the person I’ve called my father since I was ten years old—he can’t be the same person who led the attack on my home. Who killed my first father.”

“I thought the same thing, when I last saw him in Nargothrond,” said Celebrimbor after a moment. “Or—well, not the same thing, but something very like it. I still do not understand how someone can change so much—he or my father. Or my uncles. It was the Oath, I think, but I’ve never sworn an oath like that and I know I can never understand the weight of it, but it also never seemed to change Maglor the way it changed them, so…I don’t know. And if I did bind myself like that, I would not do it the same kind of furious grief that they did. Twice. But Celegorm was different, even from my father. He just seemed to stop caring, in Nargothrond, after Beren came. It was as though it didn’t matter what he did, as long as it got him a little closer to fulfilling the Oath, though I’m not sure he really believed then that they ever would. Maglor’s right, you know. His forgetting—and all of you—saved him in more ways than one.”

“It wasn’t meant to save him, I don’t think,” said Elurín.

“Maybe saving him was not meant as a kindness,” said Celebrimbor, “but—well, curses and oaths and things, they so rarely turn out exactly how those who speak them think they will, do they?”

“I suppose not. And—I’m sorry. I do not mean to mar your own happiness.”

“Every scrap of happiness I have found since the Darkening has been marred,” said Celebrimbor with a shrug. “But finding that someone you love and thought dead is not only alive but—better? Than when you last saw him? There’s little that can mar that, except the circumstances that brought about the meeting, I suppose. It still doesn’t feel quite real, but I know that is because Annatar—Sauron—he tried very hard to pry into my mind, and in doing so he tried to plant things there that weren’t real. When that didn’t work—that was when he took up—other tools. Or at least I don’t think it worked. Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

“It seems we came for you just in time,” Elurín said quietly. “I’m sorry that we did not come sooner.”

“I never expected anyone to come at all,” Celebrimbor said with a shrug. And then he winced, having pulled on one of his wounds. “I expected to die there from the moment I realized what it meant, that he’d forged a ring of his own. I just needed to hold out long enough for Celeborn and Elrond to get away.”

“I think you did. We neither saw nor heard any sign of them, and I do not think Daeron or Maglor did either.”

“And Eluréd saw them both in the mirror, I know. And the Three are safe, even if the Seven and Nine are not.” Celebrimbor ducked his head, strands of hair falling out of his braids, hiding his eyes. It was a bright day, cloudless and not quite as cold as it had been, but Celebrimbor still moved slowly and stiffly, and there were still shadows of other deeper pains behind his eyes that Elurín did not know how to banish.

Elurín was abruptly sick of shadows and darkness and the marring of the world. “Let’s forget about all of that for a while,” he said. “Let’s pretend nothing terrible is happening just out of sight—tell me more of what else you made there in Ost-in-Edhil, pretend it’s still there and you can show it all to me when we go north again. Eluréd and I visited once, but did not see as much as we would have liked, and I think you were away from the city then.”

Celebrimbor hesitated, but after a few more encouragements he started to talk of the founding of the city, and of his friendships among the Dwarves. The way his eyes lit up as he described the things they had created together made Elurín regret spending so much time away in the east. He found himself wishing that he could have been there in Ost-in-Edhil instead, to see Celebrimbor at work and to have known him in happier times. 

They did not go far, and did not stay out long. But by the time they returned home he’d even gotten Celebrimbor to laugh, by way of some absurd story from when he and Eluréd had been very young and reckless in the woods of Eriador. Both Maglor and Celegorm turned in surprise at the sound, and Elurín thought for a moment that Maglor might burst into tears. That moment passed, though, and the mood in the house was far lighter that afternoon and evening than it had been in many months. Elurín knew that he marred it by still refusing to speak to Celegorm unless he had to, but every time he opened his mouth the words got stuck in his throat. 

“Well, find a way to unstick them,” said Eluréd when Elurín told him so that night. Daeron had not yet come upstairs, so they had a few minutes to themselves. “You can’t keep going like this. Neither can he, but you don’t seem to care—”

“Of course I care,” Elurín said. “I just—how do you let it go?”

“I haven’t let it go, but you know what Daeron says about hatred—”

“It’s easy for him—”

“I really don’t think it is,” Eluréd said as Daeron came into the room. “Daeron, do you find it easy to not let hate rule you?”

Daeron paused, blinking at them, hands frozen halfway to unwinding a string of glass beads from his braids. “It’s easier now than it used to be,” he said after a moment. “It takes practice, like anything else. And, I suppose, I’ve never been inclined to hatred by nature, so maybe it’s easier for me than for others. Do you want to tell me what this is about?”

“I don’t hate him,” Elurín said. “I don’t. But I just—”

Daeron came over to wrap his arms around him. “It would be easier if you did not keep it all locked up inside you, birdie.”

“I don’t think anyone wants me to let it out,” Elurín muttered, turning so he could hide his face in Daeron’s stomach. At least Daeron was who he had always been; at least Elurín could turn to him and find shelter and understanding—never condemnation, just love—and never fear that some other terrible secret would reveal him to be someone entirely different. He wished, not for the first or last time, that he could be more like Daeron than like himself.

“I told Lossë once that mourning those kinslayers who died at Sirion or Doriath was not a betrayal of us,” said Daeron after a moment. “But he still tried to do what you are doing, to bury it all down somewhere he did not have to think of it, because to him it felt like a betrayal—if not of me, then of you. And then it all came out on the beach—you heard it, same as I did. This isn’t so different—”

“This is a betrayal, though,” Elurín said into his shirt. “Of—of our father, of—”

“I refuse to believe our father would want us to cling to such anger,” Eluréd said.

“But he’s the one that—”

“I never knew Dior,” said Daeron, “but I do not think that his actions in the last moments of his life, when he was angry and frightened and in pain, should be the example that you follow. I think I can say with confidence that that is not what Lúthien would want.”

“I don’t think she would have wanted us to be raised by Celegorm.”

“Maybe not, but that is still what happened, Elurín. You know that he loves you more than anything, and that he regrets, deeply, all that he did. It haunts him—it will haunt him, I think, forever. If things were different I would say that you should take what time you need, but I do not think we have that luxury. I don’t know how long we can stay here in safety. Whatever happens in the north, it is only a matter of time before the Enemy realizes that we are not there. He’ll come for us—and we need to make our way north before that happens.”

“You really want to take Lossë and Maglor to Galadriel?”

“No,” said Daeron, stroking Elurín’s hair, “but what other choice do we have? The Enemy will expect us to make for Lindon by way of the coast, once he realizes that we haven’t already. We could try to reach Edhellond and go by ship, but that will take months that I fear we do not have. If we can even reach Edhellond. We must not forget that the Enemy came from the east. He may have left servants behind to wreak havoc in his absence. There are no good options, but at least crossing the Gap and making for the forests east of the mountains is the shortest route, and when we reach the woods we will be able to ask help of the Ents.” 

The Ents had helped them before—without them, neither Celegorm nor Eluréd and Elurín would have ever made it out of Doriath. They would certainly allow them passage through their woods now. Elurín tried to imagine what the meeting with Galadriel would look like, and could already feel himself bristle at what she would likely say to Celegorm and Maglor. He didn’t know what to do with that feeling, either.

“You need to be able to trust Lossenol,” Daeron said quietly. “And he needs to know that he can trust you, when someone needs to watch his back or fall in on his left. Neither Maglor nor Celebrimbor are used to that yet, the way we are.”

“I do trust him,” Elurín whispered. But he didn’t know if that was true, or if he just wanted it to be true. 

He had always known that his foster father had been a kinslayer. But it was so different now to know that he had planned and led the assault. To know that he had been so hateful and cruel. Maybe the Oath was no more, but what else might happen to cause such a change in him? Fëanor had not been Oath-bound when he had drawn his sword upon his own brother. Was not Celegorm Fëanor’s son? What wrong step would Elurín, the son of Dior Eluchíl who had kept the Silmaril out of Celegorm’s hands and then cursed him with his dying breath, need to take to have a sword pointed at his own throat?

Oh. Elurín leaned harder against Daeron, squeezing his eyes shut, unable to speak aloud this sudden realization. He wasn’t angry at all, was he? It was just that fear sometimes felt so similar. 

But what was he supposed to do when the person who had once calmed all his fears was now the source of them?

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Sometime after Midwinter a change came over Elurín. He stopped speaking to Celegorm even as much as he had been before, and spent a lot of time out in the forest alone. “He’s not angry,” Daeron said when Celegorm asked him about it. “I’m not sure he ever really was—but he’s struggling with something else now and he won’t tell me what it is.”

“He won’t tell me either,” said Eluréd when Celegorm went to him next. 

“That’s not like him,” said Celegorm. 

“No, it’s not. But I’m not going to try to pry it out of him before he’s ready. That’ll just make it worse.”

“Should I try to pry it out?”

Eluréd shook his head. “No. I think maybe it’s just—everything that’s happening, and he’s overwhelmed.”

At least he hadn’t started avoiding Celebrimbor. Celegorm thought that that friendship in particular was helping both of them more than anything else. Celebrimbor and Eluréd got along very well too, but it was Elurín who was able to get him out of the house or to eat on days when he had no appetite, who could get him to smile most easily. Elurín also spoke to Maglor more or less normally. So whatever had gone wrong was something Celegorm had done—only he couldn’t think of what it was. He didn't think he had done anything new. 

“Did your twins ever do this?” he asked Maglor. They’d retreated to the bath house so Celegorm could finally cut off all the ragged ends of Maglor’s hair, which had been bothering him for weeks now mostly because they didn’t seem to bother Maglor, who had once been as vain of his hair as of his finest instruments. The air was steamy from the water they’d heated to wash it, and smelled faintly of roses from the soap. Maglor had always liked flowers. So had Caranthir—but Celegorm was trying very hard not to think about Caranthir just then. Or anyone else. 

“No,” said Maglor, “but they were still very young when they left us—adults by the measure of Men, but only barely—and we spent their adolescence on the move. I did already tell you they feared Maedhros, though.”

Celegorm paused after snipping another strand of hair. “You think it’s fear?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“No. Elurín…he’s always been rather fearless.”

“No one is truly fearless, Tyelko. You know that.”

He did know that, and he did know that Elurín wasn’t fearless—but Elurín also was not one to run away. He would rather face whatever frightened him head on, to solve it one way or another. “But I don’t…did I say something—did I do something that he mistook for—”

“I really don’t think I’m the one you should be asking. I’m still an outsider here.”

“You are not—”

“Yes, I am—it’s not a complaint, it’s just a fact, and only time can change it. I just mean that I don’t know either Eluréd or Elurín as well as you do.”

Celegorm scowled as he went back to trimming Maglor’s hair, hating the idea that his own brother was an outsider in his life, and hating even more that it was true. It looked like the last time Maglor’s hair had been cut, it had just been hacked with a knife. Which was probably exactly what had happened. Just another reminder of what Maglor had been doing, alone, while he had been off having exciting adventures in the east.

Probably time was the only cure for Elurín’s fear, whatever its root, just as it was the only cure for Maglor’s integration into their lives, but they did not have time. Celegorm had already told Daeron that now that spring had come he intended to leave to see what he could see of the Gap. If the way was at all clear, they would take the risk and try to make their way north, to the woods south and east of the Misty Mountains where they hoped the Ents would give them safe passage, and then from there they could make their way to Lórinand up the Anduin. He had thought to ask Elurín to go with him as a kind of peace offering, a chance to get him alone so they could really talk, but now he wasn’t so sure. Maybe it would be better if he went alone. 

“Do not go alone,” Daeron said sharply when Celegorm ventured to mention it. “I don’t want you to go at all, but if you must please take someone. One of the songbirds, or maybe Maglor. Or I can go—”

“No,” Celegorm said. “One of us stays with the birdies. I just—if Elurín won’t—”

“Elurín needs time. I know we don’t have it, but I don’t know what else to do for him.”

“What do I do, though? I just—I hate this.” 

“I know. I don’t know what you should do either. When do you want to leave?”

“Tomorrow, maybe the day after. The sooner I go, the sooner I come back.”

In the end Maglor agreed to go with him. It made Celebrimbor anxious, but they were the two most likely to be ignored even if they were spotted, the least likely to be recognized, at least at a distance. Before they left, Celegorm went to find Elurín. He couldn’t stand not doing anything, especially for him. He found him around the hill, near the spring where it bubbled up out of the stones. Tiny blue flowers peeped out of the moss around it; niphredil bloomed in the grass, and Elurín sat among the blossoms with his knees drawn up to his chest, resting his chin on his arms as he watched the water. “Hey, songbird.”

“Am I needed for something?”

“No.” Celegorm sat beside him. Elurín remained very still. “I’ve been trying to give you space, birdie, but I need to say some things. Will you listen?” After a moment Elurín nodded. “First—I’m leaving soon. I’m going north to see what the Gap looks like, if it’s safe for all of us to leave.”

“I know,” Elurín said quietly. 

“Would you go with me, if I asked?”

For a moment Elurín seemed to hesitate. Then he shook his head. “Eluréd wouldn’t want me to go.”

“All right. Second—I love you. I love you so much, Elurín. I don’t know how to move forward now that…now that we all know what I did. But I need you to know that—I’m so, so sorry, and I know that’s not enough, and I wish more than anything that I could go back and undo all of it. I think maybe you and Eluréd need to decide what happens next for us, and whatever you want, I’ll do.”

“Even if I never want to see you again?” Elurín whispered.

That knife between his ribs twisted and sank a little deeper. “When this is all over,” Celegorm said, swallowing hard past the sudden tightness in his throat, “if you want me to leave, I’ll go, and you’ll never have to even think about me again.”

“I don’t know if that’s what I want,” Elurín said, but he still wouldn’t look up. Celegorm had known him since he was six years old—he knew what a lie looked like written across his face. He just wasn’t sure whether the truth was that it was or was not what Elurín wanted. “But what—what happens if someday you look at me and just see Dior?”

That was like another knife plunged into his chest, and this one was worse because it was familiar. “I won’t,” Celegorm said, after a few seconds in which he struggled to find his voice. Elurín did look at him then, disbelieving and a little withering. “I would never—” Mere promises wouldn’t be enough. He took another breath and asked, “You know the story of Míriel? My grandmother—who died?”

Elurín’s brow furrowed. “Yes, but what does that have to do with—”

“I look an awful lot like her—or at least, I did when I was younger. Sometimes my father would look at me and see only her, and he was not very good at hiding how he felt about it. Later, others would look at my brother Curufin and see only our father. Even if I had known Dior longer than just the span of a single battle, even if I still hated him the way I once thought I did, I would never, ever do that to you. If you can’t believe me right now…that’s all right. I understand.”

“But if you get angry—”

“There’s nothing you could ever possibly do that would make me angry enough to stop seeing you, Elurín.” Celegorm was not his father, and he was no longer who he had been in Beleriand, either. He would not let anger rule him again, no matter what happened. “I love you, songbird,” he said, and leaned over to kiss Elurín’s temple, rubbing a hand over his back for a moment. “I’ll see you when I get back.”

“Please be careful,” Elurín whispered.

“I will. I promise.”

Eluréd was waiting when Celegorm returned to the house. “Be careful,” he said as Celegorm embraced him. 

“I will. We’re just going to look, nothing more.” Celegorm reached for Celebrimbor next, who clung to him very tightly. “We’ll be back soon. It’s no more dangerous than anything I did during the War of Wrath.”

“Then I’ll make sure to have the bandages on hand when you return,” Eluréd said. 

“Very funny.”

“Who said I was joking?”

“Just don’t do anything reckless,” said Daeron when Celebrimbor finally released Celegorm. 

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t,” said Maglor as he kissed Celebrimbor’s temple. 

“I’m never reckless,” said Celegorm, which earned him four extremely unimpressed looks. “I’m not—”

“You nearly got us buried in a landslide less than six months after we met,” Daeron said. “On purpose.”

“You did what?” Maglor and Celebrimbor chorused. 

“That was a calculated risk,” Celegorm said. “And anyway it worked, didn’t it?”

“That’s not the point.”

“I really don’t know if I want to know this story or not,” said Celebrimbor. 

“It’s actually much worse than it sounds,” said Eluréd a little ruefully.

“We all got out of it in one piece, so it’s fine,” said Celegorm. “And now we’re leaving before we lose daylight. You can slander me some more when we get back.”

“It’s not slander if it’s true,” said Daeron. “Just be careful.”

“We will be.”

“I’ll be careful, anyway,” said Maglor. 

It took days of riding to go around the White Mountains, north and east to the Gap of Calenardhon. They crossed a river that flowed down out of the mountains to join to the Angren, and soon afterward came to the Angren itself, near where it curved away from its southward course to flow westward to the sea. “I do not think we need to go further,” Maglor said, watching debris float by down the river. Celegorm couldn’t tell what it was, only that it was blackened and burned. Ahead in the north the air was shrouded in smoke, and they could see movement. “We will not pass the Gap here.”

“No, not now,” Celegorm agreed. “I want to go a little farther, just to see better what’s there. If the way is open farther east, we might hug the mountains until we can find a way across.”

“I doubt it,” Maglor said, but he followed when Celegorm continued on. He was right. After some days they came to the northern foothills of the mountains, and from the shelter of one such hill, hidden by trees, they could see the Road, and the companies marching east and west. It almost seemed that no matter how far east they went they would not be able to escape notice. “We might have to go north by the coast after all,” Maglor murmured.

“He’ll be expecting that. We’ll wait a few more months, maybe another year,” said Celegorm. “We don’t know what’s happening in the north—Gil-galad might still drive him back.” But even as he spoke the words he didn’t know if he believed them. “Númenor might send aid.”

“I hope it’s enough,” Maglor said. He stared into the north, past the Gap, as though trying to pierce the miles and the fumes to see where Elrond was hidden. “I have not seen anything like this since the Dagor Bragollach, Tyelko. I don’t like it. And we don’t even know what these rings do.”

“Find and bind, it sounds like,” said Celegorm. 

“But what does that mean?”

“I suspect we’ll find out, whether we want to or not.” Celegorm sighed, and crouched down, feeling very tired. His head ached, as it hadn’t in several months. He missed Curufin, suddenly. He wouldn’t have known what to do any better than Celegorm or Maglor, but he would have had something acerbic to say—something to make them feel a little better about the helplessness of it all. And then he missed Amrod and Amras, who could have probably found a way better than any of them through the armies blocking their way, silent and unseen. And Caranthir with his endless practicality. And Maedhros—who would have wanted to just charge through without trying to hide, and who could have done it, sending all the orcs fleeing before him. Just as he had the last time Celegorm had seen him, neither one of them knowing it. 

He missed, desperately, being one of seven rather than one of two. 

“We should go,” Maglor said after a little while. “I do not think we’ll learn anything more of use.”

“Wish we knew where he was,” Celegorm said as he rose to his feet. 

“Marching toward Lindon, I imagine. Or seeking Elrond.” Maglor turned away, and they carefully made their way back to their horses at the bottom of the hill. Limral nuzzled Maglor’s hands, and Lhimmir nosed at Celegorm, seeking treats in his pockets. “I hope our presence doesn’t just—I don’t know. Cause more problems than it solves.”

“It’ll definitely cause problems,” said Celegorm, “but there’s nothing we can really do about it except prove that we’re there to help and not hinder. And—Daeron likes to try to downplay his own standing, and maybe he doesn’t even realize it himself, but the Sindar will listen to him.”

“He said that Celeborn was suspicious.”

“Of me, not of Daeron. I didn’t see them together much, admittedly, but it seemed to me that Celeborn saw Daeron as his equal. Stands to reason that Amdír and Oropher would feel similarly.”

“They will at least heed Eluréd and Elurín,” Maglor said, though he sounded doubtful.

“That too.” Celegorm hoped his own doubt didn't come through. It wasn’t that he didn’t think the twins would not be listened to—he just didn’t know what they would choose to say. “There’s also Tyelpë.”

“Yes, there’s Tyelpë. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to—I just hate all of this uncertainty.”

“I hate it too.”

Once they were on their way south, sure that they had not been seen and were not being followed, Maglor breathed a sigh, visibly relaxing. Then he said, “So—what was that business about a landslide?”

“The spring after…we met,” Celegorm said, keeping his gaze on the lands ahead, “we left the flet Daeron had been staying in, in Ossiriand, and headed north.”

“He mentioned that. He said he had intended to part with you at the Sarn Athrad, and that none of you would have survived if you had parted.”

“That’s all true. I didn’t want to part ways with them, though. But we didn’t even get to really argue about it because as soon as we crossed over the Ascar, orcs caught up to us. I was wounded in the fight and played dead so they left me alone; the twins had gotten up a tree out of their reach, but they took Daeron.”

“They did not try to kill him?”

“Remember I told you he had a price on his head out of Angband?”

“Ah.” Maglor glanced over at him. “You said you learned that the hard way. I suppose this is that tale?”

“Yes. I was injured, but not badly enough that it slowed me down much—though I was already slowed down, not really fully healed from Menegroth, and still getting used to not being able to see on my left side—and the orcs weren’t moving very quickly, so eventually the twins and I caught up to them. I took them up the mountainside, and found a big rock that they could dislodge with a stick, and trigger a landslide. My plan was to get Daeron away and then signal the twins, so the orcs would be buried and we’d be out of the way. And that is what happened, more or less.”

Maglor shook his head, a smile playing at his lips. “And you say you aren’t reckless? Tyelko. That is the very definition of reckless.”

“Reckless implies I didn’t think it through,” Celegorm retorted. “And I did.”

“For how long?”

“At least five minutes,” he said, and was gratified to hear Maglor laugh. “I didn’t really have time to make any better plans, and there was only one of me and quite a lot of orcs. Plus some Men and—” 

“And…?”

“There was an Elf. Someone Daeron had known in Doriath.”

“Oh. He spoke of him I think. The one who gave him that scar on his neck.”

“Yes. He escaped the landslide, and then caught up to us again at the end of the War of Wrath.”

“And Daeron killed him.”

“No.” Celegorm shook his head. “Daeron broke the spells that held him bound to Morgoth’s will. Menelas wasn’t strong enough to survive it—but that’s not Daeron’s fault.”

“I never thought it was his fault,” Maglor said, “but I understand why he would think so. Will he be upset with you for telling me…?”

“No. It’s not really a secret—but don’t ask him more about it.”

“Of course I won’t.” 

“But—he was in very bad shape by the time I caught up to them. When the orcs took him, I mean. It was mostly just bruises, the orcs having their fun without going too far before they got him to Angband, but they were very bad bruises. Seeing Menelas hurt him more deeply, I think, and he was very afraid for a long time after that. But I think that was also when he started really trusting me.” It was also, Celegorm found himself remembering, the first time Daeron had lied. It had been after they’d reunited with the twins and Celegorm had sent them to fetch water or something that he’d asked Daeron if there was something he knew or guessed about him—some reason, he’d thought at the time, that Daeron had wanted so badly to send him away.

And Daeron, in pain, dirty and cold and terrified, had said no. Because he hadn’t wanted to be left alone.

Of course he’d lied. And of course he’d kept lying, the more they came to know each other—the more they liked each other, figuring out how to raise two young children and live together, not just survive. 

He’d already forgiven Daeron the lies, but until that moment the knowledge of it had sat uneasily on his heart, and doubt had lingered. He found the doubt evaporating now with this sudden understanding, like mist fading away under a rising sun. It felt like it took a weight with it—but that just made the tension with Elurín feel even heavier. 

What happens if someday you look at me and just see Dior?

If there was any way to meaningfully ease that fear, Celegorm couldn’t think of it. He just felt sick at the idea that he’d managed to pass on a worse version of his own youthful anxieties to Elurín without meaning to. 

The journey back south seemed to go more quickly than the one north. They arrived home late, but Celegorm saw lights on inside, upstairs and down, as they came out of the trees. Daeron joined them in the stable after just a few minutes. “What did you find?” he asked.

“The Gap is overrun,” said Maglor.

“Either we go east to Edhellond and north from there, or we wait,” said Celegorm. “I’m not sure going east will help.”

“That’s what I feared,” Daeron said. “And you met no trouble?”

“No. We didn’t get that close.” Celegorm finished brushing down Lhimmir and then went over to let Daeron embrace him. “Missed you,” he whispered.

“Eluréd has been having nightmares,” Daeron said. “I don’t think we should linger here much longer.”

“What is he dreaming of?” Maglor asked as he stepped out of Limral’s stall. 

“He says he doesn’t remember. I think Elurín might be dreaming as well, but he won’t say one way or the other. Celebrimbor is doing well—he’s been worried for you, but I think the changing weather has been helping to lift his spirits.”

Inside, they found Celebrimbor fiddling with something by the fire. It looked like he was braiding strips of leather into something, but Celegorm did not get a good look before he rose to his feet to greet them—and he looked and sounded so much like himself, not the frightened shadow he’d been for so long, that it was hard to breathe for a moment. “Is it bad?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Maglor, “but we’ll try again in a few months.”

Celegorm wanted little more than to take a hot bath and then to fall into bed, but first he went upstairs, knocking lightly before he stepped into the twins’ room. He found them sitting on Elurín’s bed, crowding into one another’s space. “Atya!” Eluréd straightened, expression brightening. “Everything’s all right?”

“We can’t head north now,” said Celegorm, “but you’ll be pleased to know I didn’t do anything even a little reckless.” He crossed the room and deliberately kissed them both as though everything was normal, and left his hand on Elurín’s shoulder as he added, “We might try again later this summer, but the Gap is even more overrun now than it was when we went north before.”

“He must be calling for reinforcements—perhaps all is not going as well for him as he expected it to,” said Elurín. 

“Perhaps. But none of them are looking south yet. We’re safe here a little longer.”

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It was a quiet afternoon; the trees were all in springtime bloom, and the skies were clear—until one looked eastward. Mithlond stood mostly empty; nearly all who could wield a sword were away, trying to keep the forces of Mordor at bay across the River Lhûn. But every day wounded were brought back, and every month or two another ship slipped out of Mithlond, or Forlond, or Harlond, heading west, never to return. 

On that day, however, a small and swift vessel came in with the tide, flying the banners of Númenor and the personal sigils of Tar-Telperiën and her heir Prince Minastir. As it came to the dock, Círdan went with Galdor and Gildor to meet the young man who descended the gangplank, as behind them a small crowd gathered. “Greetings, Lord Círdan,” he said, bowing deeply. “I bring word from Armenelos for King Gil-galad.”

“The king is away, but I will hear the queen’s message,” said Círdan. 

The messenger straightened. “Númenor has heard the High King’s request for aid, and remembering the long friendship of the Edain and the Eldar, will send it—even as I speak a fleet is being prepared, but it will take time. Another year at least, says my Lord Ciryatur, before all is ready.”

Círdan breathed a sigh. “Thank you,” he said. “We are sorely beset, but we can hold until Ciryatur comes. Come, I have some things for you to take back to—”

There was sudden movement aboard the ship, sailors crying out in surprise. A large pale grey shape—an enormous hound—leaped from the deck, hitting the dock at a run and barely pausing to sniff the ground before barking once, the sound echoing through the harbor, and bounding away through the city. “What—” Círdan began. 

“I do not know,” said the messenger, staring wide-eyed after the hound. “There was no sign of such a creature aboard…”

“If I did not know better,” said Galdor slowly, exchanging a glance with Gildor, “I would say that was Huan, the Hound of Valinor. Yet how can that be?”

“Whether it is truly Huan returned or not,” said Gildor, “I will choose to take it as a sign of hope, in this war against the Lord of Werewolves.”

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As the weather warmed, winter swiftly giving way to spring, everyone seemed to relax a little, especially as they all spent more time outside. The trees budded slowly, until it seemed the leaves unfurled all at once, the world suddenly bursting with greenery. Flowers bloomed, sweet-smelling and colorful. Birds nested in the woods and fluttered about the stable when the horses were let out, pecking at grain that Daeron scattered for them, and sometimes fluttering down to land on his outstretched fingers to sing for a few minutes, when he whistled merry tunes. 

Celebrimbor was glad to enjoy the sunshine on his face without bitter winds to accompany it, and he was glad too to get his hands dirty, helping Eluréd and Elurín prepare the garden, though no one really knew whether they would stay long enough to harvest what they planted. It was at least something to do, even if he still had to stop and rest more frequently than he should have.

“Why did you choose to build a home this far south?” he asked as he covered the seeds that Elurín dropped into the ground. Eluréd followed after with the watering can. “Was it to keep my uncle from attracting notice?”

“I’m sure that was part of it in Daeron’s mind,” said Eluréd, “but actually it was our idea—to keep us from attracting notice. We hadn’t reckoned with such an army coming out of the east and blocking the way, for we thought we left the unrest behind when we came back west. But if none of that had happened, we’re close enough to the Road that we could go visit Lindon or Eregion whenever we liked with little trouble, and of course Edhellond is quite close, but we’re far enough away that we can disappear when we get sick of people trying to get us to do, you know, heirs of Thingol things.”

“I thought they had all rather given up on trying to establish a new Doriath somewhere, after Oropher and Amdír went off to found their own kingdoms.”

Elurín made a face. “They have, but we made the mistake of visiting the Greenwood when we came back west—we went north first and then followed the Anduin down—and Oropher’s got daughters now.”

“What’s that got—oh.”

“They’re lovely, really, and if it weren’t so obvious that everyone else wanted to play matchmaker, I would’ve been quite happy to stay for a while and get to know them all. Thranduil, too,” said Eluréd. 

“I’m sure if Amdír has daughters he’ll have the same idea,” said Elurín. “Anything to coax us back into being princes, I suppose. Ugh.”

“He doesn’t,” said Celebrimbor. “He has a son, Amroth. He’s smitten with a lady in Lórinand, I think. Celebrían was laughing about it in her last letter to me.” That had been years ago, though, before Sauron had set forth with his armies—before he had finished making the One Ring. “Have you met her? Celebrían? You said you’d visited Ost-in-Edhil once.”

“We did, to visit Celeborn and Galadriel, and we met her then. That was many years ago, though—she was still a child, less interested in strange cousins than in digging up interesting bugs in the garden,” said Eluréd. “Celeborn is much more reasonable than Oropher or Amdír, at least. He sees us as his nephews first, and Thingol’s heirs as a distant second—though it does inevitably come up. It’s very tiresome to be always compared to someone we never even met.”

“I’ve heard Daeron compare you to both Lúthien and Thingol this winter,” Celebrimbor pointed out. They reached the end of the last row, and Elurín straightened, brushing dirt off of his hands.

“That’s different,” said Eluréd. “Daeron does not have expectations.”

“It’s not that we want to forget them,” Elurín said more quietly, “or that we do not care. But theirs—Lúthien’s especially—is a legacy we cannot live up to. Daeron understands the difference—that we want to know what they were like and the ways that they shaped us, but that we do not want to be them. When he compares us to them it’s only to say that we are as stubborn as Thingol or that we smile like Beren did, or that we sound like Lúthien sometimes when we laugh. Celeborn will sometimes speak of our mother, or of his brother our grandfather, but when he speaks of Thingol it is to remind us of the inheritance he thinks we should lay claim to, but that we don’t want.”

“I understand that,” Celebrimbor said. It was such an enormous burden, being the child of those whose names everyone knew—whichever side of the stories they fell on, whether villains or heroes. Unlike Eluréd and Elurín, he had tried to face it head on. He’d tried to live up to his own family’s legacy instead of rejecting it—to surpass it, even, to take the wreckage and build something new, something better. All he had done, of course, was clear the way for something even worse. If there was a way to fix this, he did not know what it was. He didn’t even have a sword anymore. When they finally left this place and headed north he would still be as useless as he’d been half-dead on their flight south. 

Maglor ventured north again as summer stretched on, this time going alone, insisting he would be faster and that he could hide himself well enough. All the while he was gone Celegorm paced, restless. When he returned the news was surprisingly good. “It will be a risk, but the Gap is far emptier now than it was this spring. If we are to go north by way of the Misty Mountains, we should go now.”

Daeron and Celegorm exchanged a glance that held an entire conversation. Eluréd and Elurín did the same. Maglor came over to wrap an arm around Celebrimbor. “Do you think we can make it?” he whispered as the other four split up to do whatever needed to be done to secure the house before they left. 

“I don’t know,” Maglor said softly. “Do not look to me for hope, Tyelpë. It has been beyond my reach for a very long time.”

That was the real reason he’d never come to Ost-in-Edhil, Celebrimbor thought as he looked at Maglor, who was no longer as thin as he’d been the autumn before, the Treelight in his eyes shining a little brighter. He still held himself differently though, a little smaller. He was still quieter than he had once been—not nearly as quick to laugh as he was in all of Celebrimbor’s memories. Celebrimbor thought about the music room he’d put in his house even though he didn’t play any instruments, thought of the flutes and harps and drums he’d commissioned, the books he had collected. All of them now destroyed—smashed and shredded and burned. Hope had not been beyond his reach until the truth of Annatar had come out. Now he feared he would never get to build another house with another music room, would never get to hear Maglor play any music besides soft and sad lullabies. 

He still hadn't spoken to either Maglor or Celegorm about his father. Or about his other uncles. They needed to, but he kept putting it off and now there would not be a good time until—unless—they reached safety in the north. 

He missed his father, suddenly and fiercely, as he hadn’t in a very long time. Not Curufin as he had been when Celebrimbor had last seen him, but Curufin as he had been before—in Himlad, where Celebrimbor had really grown up—or in Treelit Tirion, when he and Celebrimbor’s mother had still been happy, when he’d only ever made beautiful things, bright and colorful gems or intricate sculptures of wrought-iron that rivaled even Nerdanel’s work for their realism. When he had smiled and laughed and when schemes and oaths and swords and the kind of hard and brittle fury that had gripped him later were so distant as to seem impossible. Celebrimbor reached for his throat, but of course his silver star pendant wasn’t there, and his fingers only touched the carven holly leaf instead. He’d sent that necklace and the very few other trinkets he’d kept from his father away with the Three, tucked into a small box with a note to Elrond to please keep them safe for him, because Elrond was the only one who could even begin to understand. It was something to know that he might get them back, but he missed the feeling of the necklace around his neck. He gripped the holly leaf instead, wishing he knew how to thank Daeron properly for it. He still didn’t really feel like he belonged there with them, but that gift was a sign that Daeron wanted him to belong, even knowing about Annatar, and the rings, and all of it. 

He was unlikely to find that kind of welcome in the north. Oh, they would be kind, but between the disaster of Sauron and his arrival with not one but two of his uncles in tow, they would all keep him at arm’s length. Except perhaps Elrond. Celebrimbor wouldn’t blame them, but he could not deny that even the thought of it stung. 

The meeting with Galadriel would be awful, on all sides—for so many reasons.

“Tyelpë?” Maglor said. “What’s the matter?”

“Just—” He couldn’t say any of that out loud to Maglor. Maybe he’d feel better for saying it to Daeron—but there would be no opportunity for a long time. “Nothing,” he said. “I’m all right.”

“Whatever happens,” Maglor said, “we’ll face it together.”

It took only a couple of days to prepare to leave. “Who’s riding double?” Celegorm asked as he and Elurín and Eluréd brought out the horses. 

“You and I can,” said Daeron.

“Celebrimbor and I can too,” said Elurín, glancing over at him. Celebrimbor nodded. 

“I looked at horses when I went to Edhellond last fall,” said Eluréd as he swung into the saddle, “but there were none that could keep up with these.”

“Where did you get them?” Maglor asked. He took Daeron’s horse, and Daeron accepted Celegorm’s hand up. 

“Men that live near the Anduin and the Greenwood,” said Eluréd. “They’re skilled horsemen, and breed especially swift horses.”

“It’s because they live so close to the gardens of the Entwives,” said Elurín as he gave Celebrimbor a hand up into his saddle. “These were foaled in their pastures and raised on their grains.”

Celebrimbor looked back only once as they left the little house under the hill. It was strange and sad to see it dark and closed up, and to know that he would probably never see it again. When he glanced over at Celegorm and Daeron he saw them also casting lingering looks over their shoulders. Eluréd glanced back once, briefly; Elurín did not look back at all. 

He expected them to turn north, but instead Celegorm led them west, to where there was a wide break in the White Mountains as they marched southwest. Then they at last turned north and east, hugging the foothills, and moving carefully as they passed through woodlands and forded rivers. They went swiftly, starting early and camping late, and Maglor or Eluréd often rode ahead to scout the way. 

Finally they turned more squarely north, and the Gap of Calenardhon opened up before them, and what remained of southern Eriador could be seen, burned and blackened in the distance. Celebrimbor pressed a hand over his mouth, and heard Daeron breathe a quiet sigh. In front of him in the saddle, Elurín reached back to rest his hand on Celebrimbor’s knee. For all the devastation, it seemed quiet. “I know we’ve spoken of making for Lórinand, but might this mean there is a way open to us in the west?” Maglor said after a moment. “Either way we must follow the Misty Mountains, but is there a chance we can find Elrond…?”

“No,” Daeron said. “I would not dare risk it—who knows what is happening beyond our sight? At least we know with certainty that the eastern side of the mountains is yet at peace. If we head straight for Methedras we can follow the Angren to its source in the foothills, and then turn east into the forest—it will be slow going for the horses, but even if we are pursued the orcs will not get far. The Ents will surely be watchful.”

“We need to be very swift,” said Celegorm. “We’ll make camp and rest the horses for a day or so, and then if the coast is clear we’ll make a break for it.” He was grim-faced, and glanced at Maglor. “Seeing it empty is almost worse than seeing it overrun. Makes me wonder what’s happened.”

“Well, there is a bright side,” said Eluréd after a moment. 

“What’s that, birdie?”

“No dragons.”

“Or balrogs,” Elurín added.

Maglor grinned suddenly. “That’s true. It could be worse.”

“If we meet one or both of those things when we try to make the crossing I’m blaming all three of you,” Celegorm said, but Celebrimbor could tell that he was also fighting a smile.

They found a place to make camp out of sight of the Gap, in a hollow in the hills surrounded by tall trees. It was a relief to stretch his legs and then to sit on solid ground; the days in the saddle had left Celebrimbor sore and stiff, and his wounds ached, in a way that they shouldn’t have. As he sat beside Maglor while Daeron got a small fire going, he watched Eluréd and Elurín confer with one another before Elurín knelt and held out his hands. Eluréd stepped into them, and Elurín hoisted him up, quickly enough that Eluréd launched into the air to reach the branches of one of the trees. In moments he had disappeared up into the leaves. Celegorm tended the horses and then slipped away into the woods. Everyone was quiet, but some of the tension that had pervaded the house over the winter had faded away, though Elurín still avoided speaking to Celegorm if he could help it, and kept his distance in a way that was almost unnoticeable, except that Celebrimbor knew to look for it—and so did everyone else. 

Elurín came to sit on Celebrimbor’s other side. “What hurts?” he asked.

“Hm?”

“You’re in pain—what in particular hurts, or is it just soreness?”

Celebrimbor hesitated. “Everything,” he said finally, deciding that trying to lie would probably be useless. “But it’s not as bad as—”

“Maybe not, but I can still sing it a little better.” Elurín held out his hands, and Celebrimbor placed his own in them. He’d mostly gotten over that sharp, instinctual fear that something in Eluréd and Elurín’s voices had triggered in the beginning, but when Elurín began to chant quietly it still made him shiver a little, some part of him still recoiling from it. He did feel better afterward, though he also felt tired. He was always tired, these days, as he’d never been before. When Elurín finished, Maglor wrapped a blanket around Celebrimbor’s shoulders, and then kept his arms there, so Celebrimbor could lean against him and doze until the food was ready. As night fell watches were set, and Celebrimbor didn’t even try to volunteer, knowing that no one else would allow it even if he did think he could stay awake.

Sometime in the middle of the night he jolted awake anyway, and as he rolled onto his side he found everyone else also sitting up; the horses stamped and shook their heads. “Wolves,” said Elurín from where he stood on watch, nearly invisible in the tree-shadows. Then Celebrimbor heard it—the howling that had woken him.

“Close?” Celegorm asked. 

“No, moving away—north, I think. And the wind is in our favor.”

Daeron moved to wrap his arms around Eluréd. Maglor did the same to Celebrimbor, curling around him as they lay back down. “I’m not even armed,” Celebrimbor whispered.

“Nothing we can do about that yet,” Maglor whispered back. “Just trust us to protect you, Tyelpë.”

“I shouldn’t need—”

“Hush.” Maglor kissed the back of his head. “What should or should not be—there’s nothing we can do about it. We can only do our best with what is.”

He wouldn’t be able to wield a sword even if he had one, Celebrimbor thought bitterly. He searched the darkness for Elurín, and found him by the glint of his eyes when he glanced briefly in their direction. Celegorm had gotten up to calm the horses, and after a few minutes he went to speak with Elurín. Celebrimbor couldn’t hear what they said, could barely hear their whispered voices, but the sound of the wolves had faded, and he closed his eyes. 

They stayed another full day to make sure the horses were rested, and neither saw nor heard anything more. When the next dawn came it was dim, the sun hidden behind dark clouds. It would rain before the day was out. “Might be a blessing,” Eluréd said, eying the clouds. “Do we make for the Angren and follow it north?”

“Yes,” said Celegorm, and pointed toward it—a distant dark line winding through the Gap. “If we get separated, just stay with the river. Pace the horses and don’t stop until you absolutely must. And then when you reach the woods find a place to hide and wait for the rest of us—leave the usual signs.”

At first all seemed to go well. The Gap was empty, and the rain that drifted down from the north was cold but heavy enough to hide them from any seeking eyes, though it also slowed them down. It was also enough to hide others, but they came upon no one, not even along the river, though they saw many signs of recent passage and even of fighting. The first day passed and they kept going into the night, and stopped only to rest the horses. “Are you well?” Elurín whispered to Celebrimbor as they dropped to the ground, and Celebrimbor stumbled. 

“Fine,” he whispered back, even though it wasn’t quite true. He could rest when they were somewhere safe. 

The next day the rain cleared, but the clouds remained—and the day after that, as they finally came to the valley through which the Angren flowed from its source somewhere at the feet of Methedras, Maglor suddenly cried out, “Orcs!”

“Birdies, go!” Celegorm called out a moment later, and Elurín immediately urged his horse faster, Eluréd falling in behind them. Celebrimbor held onto Elurín, wincing when an arrow whistled just over their heads. Eluréd had his bow out and ready, and turned in the saddle to fire arrows at the orcs that came rushing out of the tall grass. There were others behind the orcs—Men with spears, and snarling wargs. Daeron’s voice rang out, and the horses seemed to gain a burst of strength as they thundered through the grass. Methedras loomed ever taller overhead, and arrows fell around them like rain. 

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Maglor cursed as the orcs rose up out of the grass. It was like they had been lying in wait—either the Enemy knew more of them than they’d thought, or he had thought to prepare for anyone passing through the Gap of Calenardhon, going in any direction, and had laid his traps accordingly. That seemed more likely. Maglor hoped that was what it was, for he was certain that he had not been seen when he’d scouted the way either alone or with Celegorm, and if Sauron could pierce through Daeron’s enchantments then he had grown very powerful indeed.

Old instincts took over as he charged forward, drawing his sword. For a moment he felt as though he were back in his own Gap, far away and long ago—though he had no armor now and no well-trained cavalry at his back. He raced after the twins and Celebrimbor, aiming to keep the enemy from catching up to them, as Celegorm and Daeron fell back to take up the rear, Daeron seeming to be doing his best to draw the attention of anyone and everyone in all that part of the world. 

Arrows flew around them, and Maglor leaned low over Limral’s neck, and when he saw the archers he veered toward them. Limral was fearless, and charged the archers without hesitation as Maglor cut down those who failed to get out of the way. Behind them were orcs and men with spears, and he saw wolves coming up from the south, swiftly closing the distance. Limral leaped away before the spearmen could reach her, and Maglor wondered if he should join his voice to Daeron’s, before deciding against it. For now they still had that element of surprise, and if he didn’t need to give it up now he wouldn’t. He turned back toward the twins and Celebrimbor. Before he could reach them a wolf leaped out of the growing mists, slamming into Elurín. He flew out of the saddle and Celebrimbor nearly followed, only barely managing to throw himself forward to grasp at Rhawhul’s reins as he cried out, “Elurín!”

Eluréd shot the wolf, and the one that followed after it. Maglor reached Elurín on the ground and grabbed the hand he held up, yanking him up onto the saddle in front of him. “Go, go!” Eluréd called, wheeling his horse around as more wolves charged up the river. 

“Eluréd!” Elurín called, twisting to look over Maglor’s shoulder. “Wait, don’t—Eluréd!”

“I’ll catch up! Just go!” With that Eluréd galloped away, raising his voice to join Daeron’s, a bright and defiant challenge slicing through the growing mists and the wolves’ howling and the orcs’ cries.

“Celebrimbor, go!” Maglor called, seeing him slow down ahead of them, looking back over his shoulder. “Keep going!”

“No! We can’t just—Eluréd!” Elurín was scratched and bloody and Maglor was almost certain he’d struck his head when he hit the ground, but he didn’t seem to have noticed his own injuries. He kept trying to turn around to see what was happening behind them. “Maglor stop, you can’t—we can’t just leave him behind—”

“There’s nothing you can do,” Maglor said, wrapping his arm more tightly around Elurín to keep him from falling out of the saddle again—no easy task, with the way he kept moving. “We’re almost there—”

“No! You don’t understand—”

Finally, they left the orcs and the wolves behind, as Celegorm and Daeron started to catch up and draw their attention, as well as whatever Eluréd was doing, and charged up a steep slope to a wall of trees, tall and dark and not at all welcoming. Celebrimbor reached it first and halted, hesitant. “Maglor…” he began as Maglor and Elurín caught up.

“It’s all right.” Maglor felt uneasy too, but better the darkness under the trees than the battle behind them. He glanced back to see Celegorm and Daeron breaking free of the fray; he couldn’t see Eluréd, but the mists out of the river were spreading, obscuring everything but strange and indistinct shapes moving through them. Celegorm and Daeron vanished again a moment later. He thought the mist was Daeron’s work. Wolves howled, but he heard neither Daeron nor Eluréd’s voices; Elurín made a soft, despairing sound, and Maglor tightened his arm around him. “We won’t go too far—just out of sight, and we’ll wait for the others.”

He led the way through the trees, the horses moving slowly, stepping carefully over gnarled roots and fallen limbs. The leaves rustled under their feet, the sound oddly flat and deadened in the stillness. Branches laden with trailing moss hung low over them, brushing through their hair like fingers. The trees were aware, watchful, though they did not yet seem ill-disposed toward them. There was no sign of any animals, not even any birds to be heard away in the canopy or to be seen flitting through the branches. This forest was very, very old. It made Maglor shiver, made him miss the wide open skies over the Sea, and in his arms Elurín had fallen silent, eyes closed, breathing slightly labored. Tears stained his cheeks. “Here?” Celebrimbor said finally, as they came to an opening surrounded by enormous oak trees, just big enough for the six of them and four horses, at least to rest for a little while. 

“Here,” Maglor agreed, and swung out of the saddle. He helped Elurín down, and then Celebrimbor, who moved stiffly but not as though he had any fresh injuries. Rhawhul also seemed unharmed; both he and Limral seemed unbothered by the eerie stillness of the forest, which made Maglor feel a little better about it himself. “Are you hurt, Tyelpë?”

“I don’t think so.” 

They both knelt by Elurín, who kept looking back in the direction they’d come. His eyes were unfocused, and when Maglor ran his fingers over the back of his head he found a tender spot, damp with blood. Celebrimbor found other bruises and cracked ribs, as well as the scratches on his arms and his back from the wolf’s claws. It was lucky the wolf hadn’t managed to bite him too. “Elurín,” Maglor said, and waited until Elurín looked at him. “You’ve hit your head. Should I sing over it or would you rather wait for Daeron?”

Elurín seemed to grit his teeth for a moment. He looked terribly like Elros just then, when he’d been injured once in a skirmish in Ossiriand, and Maglor had had to keep him from making a broken arm worse by going back out after Elrond, terrified that he had fared even worse. Elrond, entirely unhurt, had joined them swiftly and scolded Elros even more than Maglor had, before both of them had curled up together to cry themselves to sleep. Surely something similar would happen now—surely Eluréd would appear at any moment, and that terrible, frightened look in Elurín’s eyes would go away. Finally Elurín said, “You do it. Please. Just—we have to go back for—”

“You aren’t going anywhere,” Maglor said. “I’ll go back, if the need arises. Now just hold still and try to relax for me.”

“I can’t—”

“Elurín.” Celebrimbor moved so he could very carefully put his arms around him. Elurín squeezed his eyes shut with a noise that sounded like a poorly suppressed sob, and then he turned to hide his face in Celebrimbor’s shoulder. 

“I’m sorry,” Maglor murmured, wishing he had real assurances to offer about Eluréd—that he could promise that Eluréd would really catch up as he’d said he would—as Elrond had, long ago. He laid his hand over Elurín’s head and sang quietly a simple healing song. He had little skill in the way of healing except for this, but he’d had to deal with many minor hurts before on himself and others, and until Daeron or Eluréd caught up to them it was better than nothing. 

As he finished the song, twigs snapping made all three of them jump, and turn. Maglor reached for his sword, but let it go a second later. It was Celegorm and Daeron. “Elurín!” Daeron all but threw himself from the saddle to get to Elurín, and Maglor hurried to get out of the way. “What happened, how bad is it? Let me see—”

“Where’s Eluréd?” Celegorm asked, making no move to dismount. Lhimmir pawed at the ground. “Wasn’t he right behind you?” 

“We thought he would be with you,” said Maglor. 

“He turned back,” Elurín said, voice shaking. “He said—” More movement through the trees heralded the arrival of Eluréd’s horse—and only his horse, bleeding sluggishly from a shallow cut on one of his legs and with an empty saddle, some of the saddlebags torn or missing. Dark blood was splattered across his flanks and his front. Maglor’s heart sank. “No,” Elurín breathed. Then he tried to get to his feet, but both Daeron and Celebrimbor pulled him back down. “Let me go, I have to find him—”

“Elurín, you can’t,” Celebrimbor protested.

“You don’t understand, he’s all alone—they’ve got him and he’s hurt and—”

“He won’t be for long,” Celegorm said. He dropped to the ground and went to kneel in front of Elurín, resting his hands on his shoulders. “I’ll find him, Elurín.”

“But I—”

“Stay with Daeron. I’ll find Eluréd, whatever has happened to him—Varda hear me, I swear to you, Elurín, I’ll find him and I’ll get him out. Everlasting Darkness take me if I fail.”

“Atya—” Elurín fell forward, throwing his arms around Celegorm as he sobbed. Celegorm held him close, and exchanged a glance with Daeron that seemed to hold the weight of all the years they’d spent together. Daeron, with one hand on Elurín’s back, rested the other on Celegorm’s arm as he took a breath and nodded, neither of them speaking. Celegorm kissed Elurín and let him go, and then he embraced Celebrimbor just as tightly. 

“You can’t go alone,” Maglor said, getting to his feet as Celegorm rose. “I’ll go with you.”

“Cáno—”

“I’m coming, Tyelko.” It would be the highest folly to try to go alone—for any of them, but especially Celegorm. Even if it weren’t, Maglor was the next fastest rider there, and the only other one who could wield a weapon—either his sword or his voice. He was also still thinking of Elrond and Elros, and how frightened they had been every time the dangers of war had separated them. Those times had never been nearly as dire as this, and if there was anything Maglor could do to help Eluréd, he wanted to do it. 

There wasn’t time to argue, and Celegorm knew it, though Maglor saw him fight with himself for a moment, torn between wanting to protect Maglor and the knowledge that he would need help to get to Eluréd. “Fine,” he said finally.

Maglor went to kiss the top of Celebrimbor’s head as Celegorm reached for Daeron. “We’ll come back, Tyelpë.”

“Stars guide you, Uncle,” Celebrimbor said softly. 

As Maglor went to make sure Limral was prepared to move again, Daeron came over to him. He was shaking, very slightly, but noticeable when he reached for Maglor’s hand. “He is my son, Maglor. Please bring him back to me.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” Maglor said, “to make sure they both come back to you.” 

“I would ask you not to do anything stupid, but I fear that would be asking in vain.”

“I will do my best, anyway.” Maglor grasped Daeron’s hand. There wasn’t really anything else to say—there was no real reassurance to offer, probably not even any real hope. They all knew what it meant to be taken by the Enemy. They all knew that the chances of pulling off another miracle were slim, especially for them, Maglor and Celegorm, Fëanor’s last two living sons who had no reason to expect the grace of either providence or the Valar. But Celegorm had just sworn a very different oath to the one that had bound them before, and Maglor had sworn no oath at all; maybe that would mean something. “May the stars light your path, Daeron.”

“May Elbereth guide your steps, Maglor.”

“Atya Lossë,” said Elurín, huddled against Celebrimbor, as Celegorm went to mount his horse. When he turned back Elurín said, “Take my bow.”

“Elurín…”

“Just—take it. Please.”

Celegorm nodded, and left behind his yew-wood bow for one of carved dragon horn. When they left the hollow under the trees they did not look back, and did not stop until they came to the edge of the forest. Down the hill they saw the valley through which the Angren flowed, fed by other streams that spilled down the mountainside, fed by springs and snow melt. The mists had cleared away, and the sun had come out; the river was a silver ribbon winding through the green grass. Wildflowers bloomed in the meadows. It would have been a beautiful place if it were not for the signs visible even at a distance of the passage of orcs, of battle, of death. There was no sign of movement, no sign of Eluréd.

“The Enemy does not yet know about us,” Maglor said after a moment. 

“No one does.”

“It is time they learned, then, that the fire of the House of Fëanor yet burns in the world—and it burns hot.”

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Daeron sank to his knees as Celegorm and Maglor disappeared through the trees. “Elurín,” he said. 

“We can’t just stay here,” Elurín said without looking at him, still staring after Celegorm and Maglor. “We have to go too—”

“We aren’t doing anything yet. You’re hurt. Let me look properly—and then we’ll decide what to do.” What Celegorm and Maglor would expect them to do—would want them to do—was continue on to Lórinand, but Daeron wasn’t sure he could make himself do that any more than Elurín could. “Actually—first let’s move farther into the wood. I do not like being so near the edge.” None of the trees seemed to Daeron particularly pleased with their intrusion, but he did not think they would harm Elves; they were only watchful. Orcs were another matter, and the more trees they put between themselves and anything that might come after them the better. 

Celebrimbor helped Elurín to his feet, and Daeron took Rhawhul and Mithrenvos’ reins. They went slowly and carefully; it was dark and gloomy under the thick branches; the ground was covered in a thick carpet of leaves that hid trailing vines and roots that threatened to trip them up. As they came to another small clearing that Daeron deemed suitable, they all paused at the sound of a distant noise. It sounded like a horn, or a trumpet. “The Ents are moving,” Daeron said after a moment.

“What does that mean?” Celebrimbor asked. 

“I don’t know—but they won’t harm us, so we need not fear.” Daeron tended to the horses, checking Mithrenvos over carefully. He examined the cut on his rear leg, but it was shallow and had already stopped bleeding. Daeron washed and bandaged it, humming a quiet song as he did. “You’ll be all right, won’t you?” he murmured, stroking his neck. Mithrenvos nosed at him. “Rest now.”

They set up camp, Celebrimbor insisting on helping even though he was clearly also in pain. Daeron allowed it because he did not have the energy to argue with both Elurín and Celebrimbor, and then he sat both of them down to look them over more thoroughly, while they shared what exactly had happened to leave them both bruised and scratched, but Elurín with cracked ribs and a lump on the back of his head. “A wolf knocked me out of the saddle, that’s all,” said Elurín, wincing as he lifted his arms to remove his tunic. 

“That’s all? You’re as bad as Lossë,” Daeron said without thinking, before remembering that Elurín might not appreciate that comparison right then. Elurín didn’t snap at him, though—he didn’t say anything. “Well,” he said as he examined all the cuts and scrapes and felt for other broken bones besides his ribs, and then got out bandages to wind around his chest to keep them secure, “it could be worse. I’m going to get a fire going—there’s plenty of dead wood, thankfully, for we should not cut any living wood here—and then I’ll brew some willow bark and sing you to rest.”

“I can’t rest,” Elurín said. Celebrimbor had gotten out a clean shirt and now helped him put it on. “Not when Eluréd—”

“You have to rest, birdie. You won’t do Eluréd any good like this.”

“Are we going to follow after them, then?”

“I don’t know yet.” If Daeron tried to think past what he needed to do at that exact moment, he thought he would start to panic, and none of them could afford that. “Celebrimbor, I’m making enough willow bark for you too.”

“It’s me they really want,” Celebrimbor said. “If I were to—”

“No,” Elurín and Daeron said at once. Elurín reached out to grab Celebrimbor’s wrist, as though afraid he would try to get up and leave then and there. “Whatever we do,” Daeron said, “we will go very carefully, and we will not reveal ourselves to the Enemy if we can help it. We are certainly not going to use you as some kind of bait. The wisest—”

“I am not going on to Lórinand,” snapped Elurín. “I’m going after Lossë and Maglor as soon as—”

“You aren’t doing anything right now,” Daeron said. He got to his feet. “Just—lie down, Elurín. Whatever we do, we do it together, and we are not doing it today.” 

It was a relief, in a way, that Elurín was able to get angry about it. Daeron gathered up fallen branches and bits of tinder, listening hard to the silence of the wood as well as to the quiet but heated discussion Celebrimbor and Elurín were having. If Elurín did not have the energy to get this upset, Daeron would have been far more worried about him. As it was, all of his worry could safely be concentrated on Eluréd. Out of sight of Celebrimbor and Elurín, Daeron stopped and leaned against a tree, letting his head fall back against the rough bark and allowing himself just a minute to be overcome. Eluréd, his Eluréd with his sweet smiles and musical laughter, who feared little except being left alone, who was not made for war, but for laughter and music under the summer stars—Eluréd, taken by orcs, dragged away to who knew where, perhaps even to the feet of Sauron himself. And there wasn’t anything he could do. Nothing except trust in Celegorm and Maglor to get him back. 

If they did not die in the attempt. And Celegorm consigned to the Everlasting Darkness for his failure. When this was over, Daeron thought—clinging to when and not if—when this was over, he was going to strangle Celegorm for swearing such a thing so thoughtlessly. 

When he mastered himself, Daeron returned to Celebrimbor and Elurín, and found that they had prepared a small fire pit, clear of leaves and debris, and Celebrimbor had gotten out the willow bark and had wrapped Elurín up in his blankets. Elurín curled up against Celebrimbor’s side as Daeron got the fire going. “Ada, are you hurt?” he asked after a minute. 

“No, birdie, I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m not hurt.” He got the fire going and then realized they had no water but what was in their water skins. So he got up and went in search of that next, shaking his head when Celebrimbor tentatively asked if he needed help. At least this was familiar—taking care of someone wounded, in the woods, far away from everything, with orcs too close for comfort and no one to call for help. 

At least Elurín was not as badly hurt as Celegorm had been. At least it was summertime—at least they would not be there long.

He had to go farther than he would have wished to find a small swift stream flowing along a stony bed that wound through the tree roots. He filled his little pot and returned to finally set it over the flames to heat, and then he went to sit by Elurín. “Ready for me to sing?” he asked.

“I’m not sure you should,” Elurín said. “You’re—”

“I’m tired, but not so tired that I can’t at least ease your headache and let you rest. And you, Celebrimbor—I know you are also hurting.”

“Is it safe for all of us to rest, here, or should we take watches?” Celebrimbor asked instead of agreeing or disagreeing that he was in pain. 

“I don’t think we have much of a choice but to all try to rest. We’re all too weary. This forest—Ents have been here for a very long time, and the trees are more awake than they are elsewhere. I do not think they would take kindly to any orcs that dared to trespass beneath them.” Daeron didn’t think he would be able to get much sleep, but he intended to make sure both Celebrimbor and Elurín did. He could tell that Elurín knew it, too, judging by the way he was glaring. “Don’t look at me like that, Elurín. You need rest, and you know it. Now let me sing my songs, and let them do their work.”

After the water heated and he brewed the willow bark, Daeron made both Celebrimbor and Elurín drink some, and eat as much as they each could stomach. Then he sang more songs of healing and of rest until they both succumbed to sleep, Celebrimbor curled around Elurín almost protectively. Daeron covered them both with an extra blanket, and then wrapped himself in his cloak and leaned back against some large roots that jutted out of the ground, watching the flames of their small fire dance until he, too, dozed off as exhaustion overtook the fear. 

It was late in the afternoon when he fell asleep, and he woke as evening fell, the shadows deepening around them. Something had woken him, but he couldn’t tell what. The horses shifted restlessly, and Daeron got up to try to calm them, listening hard as he looked around. Then he heard it—creaking as of tree branches, and the rustling of leaves, as though a tree had gotten up to stroll the forest. He relaxed, just slightly. An Ent. 

For a few minutes he thought the Ent would simply pass them by, but instead he came to the edge of the little clearing and peered down at Daeron, his deep green eyes curious and wary. He was not Finglas, nor Fladrif, the Ents who had brought Celegorm and then Eluréd and Elurín to Ossiriand out of Doriath, but Daeron still recognized him. He stepped forward and bowed. “Well met, Fangorn.”

“You know me,” said Fangorn, his gaze shifting briefly to Celebrimbor and Elurín, who still slept, “but I do not know you, young Elf.”

“We have met before, long ago in the beech woods of Neldoreth, where I played my flute beside the Esgalduin. I am Daeron. I hope you will forgive our trespass—I cut no living wood for our fire.”

“Ahh, young Master Daeron. I remember you now. It has been a very long time. I heard the howling of wolves this morning. Did they drive you into my wood?”

“Yes. Wolves and orcs. We meant to pass through your wood on our way north, escaping the wars to the south and west of the mountains—but we were parted from our companions, and I do not know yet whether we will go back or continue forward.”

“You are welcome here, Master Daeron, you and your companions,” said Fangorn. “I remember you and your music, and the care you had for the trees of Neldoreth.” His eyes were deep wells of green, shining gently with a light of their own. Daeron felt suddenly very seen, in a way he was not sure he liked much. “You carry heavy sorrows, now.”

“Do not we all?” Daeron said softly. 

Fangorn sighed, a sound like the wind passing through the boughs. “So we do. If you choose to pass through my wood, go carefully—and if you have need, only call for me. I will hear. Fear no orcs—they will not enter into my wood, not while I am watching.”

“Thank you, Fangorn.” Daeron bowed again; Fangorn inclined his head, and then he strode away, heading west and south toward the forest’s eaves. Daeron breathed a sigh and sank back onto the ground beside Elurín. He added a few sticks to the fire, and drew his knees up to rest his chin on them, watching the flames, feeling very small and, after speaking to Fangorn, younger than he had felt in a very long time. 

He slept off and on throughout the night, exhaustion still warring with fear, and by morning he felt just as tired as he had the day before. Celebrimbor and Elurín stirred, and then Elurín sat up with a sharp gasp. “Ada—”

“I’m here.” Daeron reached for him, and Elurín grasped his hand. “Nothing happened yesterday or last night, except that Fangorn himself passed by. He’s given us leave to continue north, if that is what we choose to do.”

“I’m still not going to Lórinand,” said Elurín. He looked and sounded a little better than the day before, but there was a wildness to him that Daeron didn’t like. “I’m going after Eluréd. They’re—they’re taking him north. I think the Enemy is seeking Elrond. If the orcs reach him with Eluréd—”

“Lossë and Maglor are already following,” Daeron said as Celebrimbor rolled over with a grunt.

“They are only two, and Lossë can’t even fight the way he might need to!”

“He knows his limits,” said Daeron, “and he’s clever. And Maglor’s songs are much better suited to battle than mine. If it comes to it, they’ll take Eluréd to Elrond—I’m sure that they’ll be able to find wherever he is hidden, or that his people will find them.”

“I don’t care,” said Elurín. “I can’t—if we go to Lórinand, even if they do find Eluréd we won’t be able to cross over into Eriador to join them for years, maybe, and I can’t—”

“We don’t know, though, where the Enemy is,” said Celebrimbor. “He could be anywhere in Eriador—chasing down Gil-galad, rather than Elrond.”

“I don’t think so,” said Elurín. 

“Well, Gil-galad will be hunting him,” said Celebrimbor. “We can’t know where exactly they are taking Eluréd—but Celegorm can track anything. They’ll find him.”

“If you were dreaming of Elrond,” Daeron said slowly, trying to think carefully, trying desperately not to let his own feelings cloud his judgment and fearing that he was failing, “then perhaps that is where we should try to go. He is in a valley somewhere, Eluréd said—there are many such places in the easternmost reaches of Eriador. We might be able to pass north unseen if we stay very close to the mountains. I don’t know what kind of help is to be found there, but at least we will know better what is happening.” It was exactly the opposite of what he had wanted to do, but that had been before. Now they had to throw all their plans out, and replace them with far more dangerous ones. He hated this, but he didn’t know what else to do. He couldn’t stand the thought of sitting uselessly in Lórinand, either.

“Yes,” Elurín breathed. “We can find out what’s happening and then I can—”

“Make no further plans, Elurín. We do not know what we will find.” Daeron squeezed his hand. “And we cannot move quickly. We must take secrecy over speed. We will do Eluréd no good at all if we are killed or taken ourselves. Wait.” He pulled on Elurín’s arm when he started to get up. “Let me look at you, Elurín. You were injured yesterday, and I need to—”

“I’m fine—”

“I will not lose you too!” Daeron snapped. “If you are not going to listen to me, then Celebrimbor and I will tie you up and drag you to Lórinand instead, do you hear me?”

Elurín immediately sat back down. “Sorry, Ada,” he whispered. 

“If we take this course we will do it my way. Carefully. And if I do not think you should leave this place today, then we will wait and you will rest.”

Elurín opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it again, blinking rapidly. Into the silence Celebrimbor said, “Daeron—where was it you found the stream yesterday?”

“That way,” Daeron said, pointing. “It’s not too far, but be careful. It is easy to get turned around. Call for me if you get lost. I’ll hear.”

“I will.” Celebrimbor picked up the water skins and disappeared into the trees. 

When they were alone, Elurín burst into tears, falling into Daeron’s arms. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I just—he’s so afraid, and they’re hurting him and I can’t help him like this and—”

“I know.” Daeron held him close. “I know, Elurín. I hate this too. Please, please do as I say. Do not be reckless.”

“I will. I promise, I will.” Elurín hid his face in Daeron’s arm, shaking all over as he wept. Daeron rubbed his back, and hummed a quiet song, trying to imbue more healing into it. “My head aches,” Elurín said after a while, after the tears had mostly passed. By then Celebrimbor had returned, and had started to dig out rations for breakfast.

“Eat something and rest a little more. If it still hurts by this afternoon, we’ll stay another night. If you’re feeling better, we’ll start making our way west. Celebrimbor—”

“I’m sore, but nothing worse than it has been,” said Celebrimbor. When Daeron glared, he held up his hands, palms out. “Truly.”

His wounds were healed enough that they should not ache so constantly, Daeron thought. But there was nothing he could do about it, especially then and there. It would be something to tell Elrond when they finally found him. 

When. Not if. 

They stayed the rest of that day. Elurín needed the rest, and so did the horses. Elurín slept all day and only woke when Daeron roused him to eat in the evening, before falling back asleep. “What do you want to do?” Daeron asked Celebrimbor afterward, both of them tired but unable to go to sleep themselves. 

Celebrimbor grimaced. “To be able to do more than just skulk in the shadows at the edges of this war,” he said. “But I do not think I could go to Lórinand and just—sit and wonder what is happening across the mountains. Not now.”

“I don’t think I could, either.”

“I also—I would like to delay having to speak to Galadriel, even if it is cowardly. She did warn me, and I did not listen. I just—even she did not ever suspect that Annatar was Sauron, but she still saw him more clearly than I did.”

“An interesting name he chose for himself. Annatar,” Daeron murmured. 

“It fit, at least in the beginning. There were many things we all learned from him that…well, outside of ring-craft I cannot think of anything that might be taken and twisted now to his own ends. That was why I came to trust him.” Celebrimbor turned a leaf over in his hands. “But of course I do not know what else he was doing in the city, what other seeds he was planting.”

“Try not to dwell on it,” said Daeron. “It won’t do any good.”

“I’ll have to dwell on it eventually—to try to figure out what he did and what he might do next.”

“But it can wait. When we reach Elrond, or when we finally come to safety in Lindon—”

“Is Lindon safe?”

“I hope it is,” said Daeron. He was not accustomed to playing this role—usually he was the one who doubted. Trying to convince someone else to hope felt a little like when Celegorm shoved his staff into his hands and made him drill with it for an hour. “Try to get some sleep. I think we’ll be leaving early tomorrow.”

The next morning Elurín claimed that his head didn’t hurt at all, which Daeron didn’t believe, but he did not seem unsteady on his feet or otherwise in pain, so he didn’t argue; they quietly packed up their small camp, and made their way back the way they’d come, reaching the edge of the forest as pale sunlight spilled over the valley at the feet of Methedras. The Angren and its tributaries glimmered gently silver in the early morning, but there were clear signs even at a distance of the orcs that had been there. Bodies still lay in the grass and on the stony banks of the river; Daeron could see the movement of carrion birds. “We’ll pass south around those last few hills,” he said after a moment, “and then go around them to head directly north. I do not know those lands, however.”

“I do—or at least I know the lands well in Eregion,” said Celebrimbor. “We’ll pass very close to the entrance to Khazad-dûm, but if those doors are not closed I will be very surprised.”

“Do you think they will be watched?”

“I don’t know, but we should assume so.”

Daeron took a deep breath. “All right. Well, first we must pass around the mountains without being seen. I can hide us well enough, I think, and hopefully they will not expect us to come back this way having escaped once. Will you ride together as you did before, or will one of you ride with me?”

“We can ride together,” Elurín said, glancing at Celebrimbor, who nodded. “I’m all right now, I think.”

“Remember, Elurín, we stay together. And we should go slowly, at least at first—pushing the horses too hard will only hurt all of us in the long run.”

“I know.” Elurín turned north and west, gaze doing distant. “I can’t see anything,” he whispered. “It’s all shrouded in darkness.” Daeron reached for his hand, but Elurín only squeezed it once before letting go and turning to mount Rhawhul. 

Mithrenvos pawed the ground as Daeron turned to him, and snorted. “I know,” he murmured, stroking his neck. “We’ll find him.”

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Elurín was always aware of Eluréd, of whether he was nearby, whether he was all right—what he was feeling, if it was something strong enough. Now all he could tell was that he was in pain and he was terrified, and he didn’t even know if Eluréd could reach for him in return, if he knew that Elurín was following after him. 

As Rhawhul followed Mithrenvos down the hill toward the Angren, Elurín thought of Celegorm and Maglor, making their way north—much faster than the three of them would go. This was even worse than when the orcs had taken Daeron, long ago—but only, Elurín thought, because he understood better now what was happening to Eluréd and what awaited him when he was brought before Sauron. He had not known, as a child, what Daeron had endured, or what would have become of him if Celegorm had failed to get him back. He hadn’t even really understood the risks Celegorm had taken to rescue him. 

Now he did understand—he understood all too well. Rhawhul sensed his distress and shook his head. Elurín loosened his grip on the reins and patted his neck, trying to breathe the way Daeron had taught him to calm down, deep and slow. It didn’t really work. Celebrimbor’s arm around him helped a little more, warm and solid and grounding. They didn't dare speak much, though Elurín would have liked to—anything to distract him from all the imagined horrors crowding everything else out of his mind. 

How could Daeron stay so calm? 

They went slowly, stopping often once they left the valley at the end of the mountains, and made their way west. Elurín spotted signs of Celegorm and Maglor’s passage, moving swiftly, also keeping to the foothills and out of sight of the orcs, though they disappeared after a short time and he couldn’t tell where they’d gone next. It mostly seemed to be supply trains that were passing through the Gap now, between Tharbad and whatever strongholds Sauron had in the east. Part of Elurín wanted to stop and cause some mischief, but the far larger part wanted to press on, to go faster. 

Their course took them around the hills and then straight north. After some days they came to the lands south of Eregion. Celebrimbor breathed out a soft, pained sound at the first sight of the burned out woods, of farmsteads and villages destroyed, the fields trampled, in some places the wreckage still smoking. Daeron kept them in the hills, and so they did not see the ruin of Ost-in-Edhil, even at a distance.

When they stopped to camp Elurín’s dreams were terrible, memories of the War of Wrath blending with whatever Eluréd was enduring, and he kept waking unable to breathe. Always either Celebrimbor or Daeron were there to whisper words of comfort that they all knew were empty, but which Elurín clung to anyway. None of them slept much when the wind carried the howling of wolves on it, though. Or the smell of distant smoke. All of Eregion was burning, and there was nothing they could do. 

Near the mountains there was less devastation. They could forage as they went, though there was little to hunt. Elurín carried Celegorm’s bow and once or twice he had to kill some orcs that were either lost or seeking for people like them trying to escape north or south. 

One night they sheltered in a shallow cave, just big enough for them and the horses. Daeron fell into a deep sleep almost as soon as he laid down, having nearly reached the limits of his endurance. Elurín and Celebrimbor stayed up, sharing a cloak since they hadn’t dared to light a fire, and the nights were unseasonably cold, and Celebrimbor still felt the chill more strongly than Elurín or Daeron did. “How did you escape Nargothrond?” Elurín asked after a while, when the silence became unbearable. 

“I fought in the Battle of Tumhalad. Some of us who survived escaped the field, but by the time we made it back to Nargothrond it was all over—everyone was dead or gone, and we didn’t dare get too close lest Glaurung take notice. We had no choice but to make our way down Sirion to the Havens, and then to Balar. It was long before I learned what had happened to those who had remained behind in the city. I suppose if I had known I wouldn’t be here now, I would have perished trying to go after them—after Finduilas, at least. She was a very dear friend to me.”

“I’m sorry,” Elurín said softly. 

“She did not deserve that fate. Nor did Orodreth. They were both very kind to me when they didn’t have to be. He would have been well within his rights to send me and my people away as soon as my father was gone.”

“So—you were already at Sirion when Doriath fell.”

“I was on Balar. And—no, I did not know your sister well. She came seldom to Balar, and I went seldom to Sirion after the Iathrim arrived. Even though I had broken with my father, I did not think anyone would be very comfortable with Curufin’s son coming among them. I do know she was much beloved—by everyone in the Havens, not only her own people.”

“Did you know Eärendil?”

“Yes, better than Elwing. He spent a great deal of time on Balar, learning shipbuilding and sailing from Círdan, both with his father and after Tuor and Idril sailed.” Celebrimbor paused, and then sighed. “Idril was also my cousin, and I was very fond of her—in spite of the animosity between our houses even when we were young. It had grieved me not to see her again after our people left Mithrim, since I did not go to the Mereth Aderthad, and there was no other opportunity to meet before Turgon took them all away to Gondolin. I was so glad to see her again when she came to the Havens. I was also fond of Eärendil. He was—he was so very hopeful, even as a child, even after Gondolin fell. Hopeful in a sort of…determined kind of way, like he was hanging onto it with all he had and just refused to let go no matter what happened, the same way Elrond is. I always envied him that, a little. He loved your sister, though, and he adored Elrond and Elros. I know they were happy, but for the fact that he was so often away from home.” 

That was reassuring. Almost everyone else who had told Elurín of his sister and her husband had spoken of them in glowing, heroic, almost mythic terms. Well, everyone but Elrond and Elros, but theirs were children’s memories, hazy and colored by loss and longing, like Elurín’s memories of his own parents. He was glad to know from someone who had been there, who still thought of them as real people, that they had been happy. That they really did love one another. He hoped they were still happy, in spite of everything. 

After a while Elurín asked, “Were you offered a chance to return to the west after the war?”

“Yes. I didn't want to. I had already lived more of my life here than I had in Tirion. It would not have been a homecoming.”

“Do you not have other kin there?”

“My mother is there, and her family—for all I know I have dozens of cousins now, who were born after I left—and my grandmother Nerdanel. It is also said that Finrod returned from the Halls sometime during the War of Wrath, though I did not hear about that until long afterward, when sailors from Númenor first returned here bearing tales of him.”

“You did not want to return to your mother?”

“You chose to stay, too.”

“Yes, but I was born here. And the way has always been open for me. Is it not closed to you now?”

“It is. But…” Celebrimbor shook his head, once. “I never really cared, before. I wanted to build a city like Ost-in-Edhil. I wanted to make something of my own, to attach my name to something better than what the rest of my family had done. I would not have been able to do that in Tirion. I did write to my mother—Finarfin agreed to carry my letter back to her—but I don’t know anymore whether I regret staying or not.”

Elurín hesitated without really knowing why, and then said quietly, “I’m glad you’re here.” Celebrimbor’s arm around his waist tightened a little, and he leaned over to rest his head on Elurín’s shoulder, breathing a soft sigh. Somewhere in the distance wolves howled, but it was soon drowned out by the wind that wailed across the cave’s mouth. Elurín glanced at Daeron, who shifted in his sleep, murmuring something. He wondered where Eluréd was. Where Celegorm and Maglor were—whether they had found shelter. Whether Eluréd knew that they were coming for him. Elurín hoped he did, he hoped the Music had given him some hint of hope. He kept listening to the streams they passed, kept bending his ears to the wind, straining to hear anything that might tell him what lay ahead—but all he heard was rushing water and moving air. 

“We are close to the Sirannon,” Celebrimbor said after a while, “and the road that leads to Moria—and then a little farther north is the road that leads to the Redhorn Pass. I still fear that both will be watched.”

“I think we have a better chance of passing unseen through the woods than we did crossing the Gap,” said Elurín.

“I can’t help but wonder if they were lying in wait for us.”

“I suppose it’s possible. We may have left some sign when we fled south.” Elurín had done his best to hide their passage, but they had all been more worried about making sure Celebrimbor survived the journey. It didn’t matter now, really, he supposed. They would just have to do better as they went north.

“My uncles are going to be furious when they find out we’ve followed them.”

“Lossë will probably threaten to tie us up and never let us outside again,” Elurín agreed.

“I thought that must be where Daeron got it from.”

“After I fought the dragon he said the next one of us who wanted to do something like that would get tied up and tossed into the deepest cave the dwarves would let him into. Did he ever say such things to you?”

“No, but there was no occasion for it until after the Bragollach, and after that—he didn’t do much teasing, then. I’m glad he remembered how.”

“After he forgot everything else. Maglor thinks it’s the best thing that ever happened to him.”

“I think Maglor’s right,” Celebrimbor said softly. 

“But it only came about because my father laid a curse on him. I do not think my father intended to help him.” What Elurín could not figure out was what Dior had intended. If Celegorm remembered his exact words, he hadn’t shared them, and Elurín was afraid to ask. What if it wasn’t over? What if they would all still be caught up in whatever Dior had done to him, the way everyone in Beleriand had been caught up in the Doom of the Noldor—what if it was already happening, and that was how Eluréd had been taken?

If that was so, Elurín did not think he would ever forgive Dior for it. 

“If he wanted to hurt him, he has succeeded,” said Celebrimbor. “But that does not mean the ripple effects need all be terrible—I still believe what I said about it before. Even Morgoth’s curse upon Húrin and his family, for all the harm it did, though it cost Finduilas her life, led to the slaying of Glaurung in the end. It would still have been better if it had never happened, but—I’m not sure I can say the same of whatever it was your father did.”

“Maybe.”

The next morning they went on, going on foot and leading the horses. Elurín ventured ahead, keeping his bow out and an arrow ready. Before long he came to the Sirannon as it tumbled over its stony bed, and he saw steps carved into the stones leading up toward the mountains. That was the path to Moria, but he neither saw nor heard nor sensed anyone watching. When he looked up he saw no birds—no crows, not the ravens that were the friends of dwarves, or even an eagle circling high above. But the clouds were very low, and a chill wind blew down off of the mountains. “Anything?” Daeron asked when Elurín returned to them.

“Nothing, but we need to be quick. I don’t like the stillness.”

“Nor do I.” Daeron glanced around. They were high enough that they could see for some distance into the west where there was a break in the trees, where distant movement was visible. Daeron’s gaze lingered there for some time before he sighed and gently tugged Mithrenvos forward. “Nothing for it. Let’s go.”

They passed by the road to Moria and over the Sirannon without being seen. If Sauron had ordered a watch kept, the watchers were shirking their duties. Elurín still couldn’t breathe properly until they were miles away, hidden in the trees and far from even the sound of the river. Celebrimbor stumbled over a tree root, and Daeron caught him. “Let’s rest,” he said. “Then I think we can return to the saddle. How far north do you think Elrond would have gone?”

“It’s near a river,” Elurín murmured, and then frowned, unsure how he knew that. Had Eluréd mentioned it? 

Celebrimbor sat down heavily and frowned thoughtfully. “The Sirannon flows down into the Gwathló,” he said slowly, “and the Gwathló flows out of the joining of the Mitheithel and the Bruinen—the Bruinen flows southwest, from the Misty Mountains. The East road crosses over it, and then leads to the High Pass.”

“Did we cross the High Pass when we went east the first time?” Elurín asked Daeron. 

“I think so. We followed the Road, anyway, and I remember fording the Bruinen. At least we have a place to make for.”

“But we still don’t know where—anyone is,” Elurín said, gesturing westward.

“North,” Daeron said quietly. “I feel we must go north. Whether that is where the Enemy is, seeking Elrond, or whether Lossë and Maglor will make for Elrond’s hidden valley once they’ve rescued Eluréd, I can’t say. But to Elrond is at least where we must go.”

“And if they don’t go east, when—when they’ve got him? If they go west?”

“One leg of the journey at a time, birdie. When we find Elrond and can find out what’s really happening—then we’ll decide what to do next.”

“Right. Sorry.” Elurín looked west, though he couldn’t see anything through the trees. He could still feel that Eluréd was alive—still knew that he was scared and hurt. Celegorm hadn’t yet found him. Or if he had, Eluréd didn’t know what was happening. 

Daeron stepped up beside him, putting a hand on his arm. “Don’t despair, Elurín,” he said softly.

“I need Eluréd for that,” he whispered. He just needed Eluréd. He was only half himself without his brother and if the worst happened—he didn’t know what he would do. He didn’t think he would survive it, wasn’t sure an eternity in the Halls of Mandos would be enough to heal him. 

“Elurín…”

“I’m sorry. I’m trying, Ada, I just…”

“I know. I’m scared too.”

“You don’t seem that scared.”

“Because I can’t afford to be. Otherwise we’ll never make it. When we find Elrond and are somewhere safe—then we can all fall apart a little. And then we’ll put ourselves back together and do what we have to do, because we have no other choice.” Daeron sighed, and pulled Elurín down so he could kiss his forehead. “Sit down, rest a little. We’ll move on in an hour or so. We have to be careful of the horses in these hills.”

Elurín went to sit beside Celebrimbor, who reached for his hand. “All right?” he asked quietly.

“No,” Elurín said. He wasn’t sure he would ever be all right again. 

They moved on after an hour, going as quickly as they could, following the line of mountains as they marched north. Elurín kept looking up, feeling like they were being watched, but there was never anything there except the clouds and the mountain peaks that vanished into them. They went as quickly as they could, but that was not as fast as Elurín wished, for they had to be careful of sudden drops or small steep valleys that opened up before them. 

A few days after they passed the Sirannon, they passed the way that led to the Redhorn Pass—and also saw no one there. Elurín did not like it, expecting an ambush at any moment, but none ever came. A few days after that, Daeron drew to a sudden halt. “What is it?” Elurín asked.

“Movement,” Daeron said. Elurín readied his bow, and Celebrimbor’s arm around his waist tightened a little, but Daeron held up a hand. “Wait. They’re moving fast, on foot—I don’t think…” 

The figure came into view through the trees, and halted as he saw them too. It was an Elf, but Elurín knew better than to relax just because of that. For several seconds they all just stared at one another. Then the other Elf said, incredulously, “Master Daeron?”

“Lindir!” Daeron dismounted as Lindir came forward, hands extended. “What are you doing out here?”

“Carrying messages, if I can make it, to Lórinand over the Redhorn Pass,” said Lindir. He glanced toward Elurín, and then his eyes widened upon seeing Celebrimbor. “My Lord Celebrimbor! We thought you were dead!”

“It’s rather a long story,” said Celebrimbor. Elurín didn’t turn to look, but he could imagine the rueful and slightly pained expression on his face.

“We are seeking Elrond—and Gil-galad, if we can find them,” said Daeron. “Can you tell us if we are going the right way?”

“Yes, you are! Not far from the fords across the Bruinen there is a valley—we stumbled upon it almost by accident last year when fleeing Eregion, and both Elrond and Celeborn have set their own protections around it. I do not know if you will easily find it, but I am sure they will be aware of your coming when you are close. Just turn east and head into the hills when you reach the ford—going carefully, for there are many such valleys, though none nearly as large as the one we found. The Enemy has not crossed the Bruinen, and I do not know where he is, but I fear he holds the bridge over the Mitheithel. Elrond and Celeborn will be very, very glad to see you! But where are Lossenol and Eluréd?”

“We were separated,” Daeron said, glancing at Elurín, who bit his tongue. “We hope to find them in the north too.”

Lindir nodded. Elurín knew him only a little, as a merry figure who delighted in cheerful rhymes and teasing songs, a good friend of Elrond’s, and one of very few who had been born in Doriath who had never looked to either Eluréd or Elurín as their next king. He did not look either cheerful or teasing now. “May I take word of you to Lady Galadriel?” he asked, looking between the three of them. “She will be very relieved, I think, to know that you live, Lord Celebrimbor—she and Lady Celebrían.”

“Yes, please,” said Celebrimbor. “But be careful, Lindir. We got by without being seen, but I still fear the pass will be watched.”

“Alone and on foot, I think I can make it as long as Caradhras sleeps,” said Lindir. “May Elbereth guide you!”

“And you, Lindir,” said Daeron, squeezing his hand before letting go. “I hope we will meet again someday soon.”

They waited until Lindir had disappeared into the woods to the south, and then waited a little longer. When it remained quiet, Daeron returned to the saddle. “At least now we know where to go, rather than just guessing and hoping,” he said.

“Elurín already knew it was near a river,” said Celebrimbor. 

“But now we know for sure,” said Elurín. And as soon as he saw Daeron and Celebrimbor safe in that hidden valley with Elrond, if they did not find the others already there, he would ride out again to look for them, whatever Daeron said, even if it meant facing Sauron himself head-on and alone.

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Most of what was passing through the Gap at that moment, as far as Celegorm could tell, was supply trains. Their crossing of it had coincided with a break in the caravans and the patrols—a small piece of luck that had almost seen them safely to the Ents’ wood. He watched a trio of wagons pass by less than a mile from where he and Maglor hid in the hills, heading west, watched the horsemen accompanying them, and had an idea. “We need armor,” he said. “Mail, at least—helmets if we can get them.” They’d already run into a party of orcs and barely escaped; Celegorm had a new cut on his thigh and Maglor had several on his sword arm—nothing serious, but only because they’d gotten lucky. To make things worse, Celegorm had lost the trail of Eluréd’s captors for a while, and though he’d found it again they had lost precious hours. 

They would lose more than hours, though, if they got themselves killed.

“It would be nice,” Maglor said, “but how are we going to get any? Let alone any that will fit us—we can’t possibly wear orc armor.”

“There are Men guarding those caravans,” said Celegorm, pointing to the one he’d been watching.

“And there are only two of us.”

“More than half of what I did during the War of Wrath was sabotage supply chains without getting caught,” said Celegorm. “I know exactly what I’m doing. And the sooner we get mail the sooner we can go after Eluréd—and if we look like the Enemy’s servants we won’t need to hide, and we can go faster—we can make up the time it’ll take to get it, and when we do reach Eluréd we won’t have to worry as much about getting hit.”

Maglor pressed his lips together, frowning as he thought. “All right,” he said finally. “Though I don’t think a couple coats of mail will be enough to really disguise us—and I think both of us are far more out of practice at warfare than we’d like to think.”

They were also not used to working together like this—not since they were children, and what they were doing now was very different from conspiring to sneak outside to escape their tutors in favor of raiding the strawberry patch in their grandmother’s garden, or creeping into the kitchens to steal pastries. Maglor was no longer used to working with anyone at all, and Celegorm had grown to rely on the twins or Daeron instead. But this should be a straightforward affair, unless there was some ugly surprise hiding in the wagons. “I need you to stay on my left, if it comes to a fight,” he said. “I can’t see on that side.”

“Of course.”

“But if all goes well, there won’t be a fight.”

“Unless you think they have piles of mail in those wagons, we’re probably going to have to kill someone,” Maglor said. 

“We can pick off sentries late at night, and then I’ll set fire to the wagons.”

“I see why Daeron was so worried about you doing something reckless.”

Celegorm glared at him. “I don’t see you coming up with any ideas.”

“Because I have none—I’ll follow wherever you lead, Tyelko, I just want to acknowledge how bad of an idea this is.” Then he paused, and reached for Celegorm’s arm. “Wait—we won’t have to kill anyone if I sing them all to sleep.”

Celegorm thought about it, looking back at the wagons as they circled around in preparation to camp for the night. “There aren’t really any good options,” he said finally, “but that’s much better than what I was thinking. I’m still setting it on fire before we go.”

“Yes, obviously. Let’s go.” 

They slipped soundlessly through the tall grass, able to move unseen on foot as they had not on horseback. By the time they reached the caravan it was dark, and they crouched in the shadows to watch the sentries take their watches, and the other soldiers build their cooking fires and prepare to bed down for the night. Celegorm made a circuit of the camp to make sure there were no surprises in the growing dark, and when he returned to Maglor’s side he touched his shoulder lightly.

Maglor took a few deep breaths, and then as the stars came out he began to sing, very quietly at first and only gradually growing louder. The sentries noticed quickly, but his song wrapped around them and around all the other soldiers in the camp with swift and ruthless gentleness, until one by one they fell to the ground, deeply asleep. Celegorm found himself yawning, and pinched himself a few times to stay awake until the song was done. Maglor sang it again, just to be sure, and then breathed a sigh. He swayed when he got to his feet. “I forgot how much that takes out of you,” he said, “but they won’t wake until the morning, or until someone comes to try very hard to rouse them.”

It would be very easy to make sure none of them woke at all, but Celegorm didn’t think he could do that—he wouldn’t have hesitated, back in Beleriand, but that was a very long time ago—and it would also take precious minutes they didn’t have. He and Maglor found the two biggest Men among the soldiers—they didn’t have to bother with the sentries, with everyone there fast asleep—and stripped them of their mail. Once they had put it on themselves, Celegorm went to break axles and wheels and look through the supply wagons. They were mostly full of food, and he took enough to keep him and Maglor going for many days, and then stole a few blankets and and cloaks, thinking more of disguises, and also what Eluréd might need when they found him. 

While Celegorm worked, Maglor cut the horses free and sent them racing off into the night. “Ready?” Maglor asked. 

“Nearly.” Celegorm handed over one of the cloaks, donned the other, and then picked up a torch. He lit it in one of the campfires, and then tossed it into the nearest wagon. “Now I’m ready,” he said as the flames caught. He and Maglor fled. The mail on his shoulders was heavier than Celegorm remembered armor being, and didn’t fit quite right, but at least it would turn a blade. He glanced over his shoulder to see torchlight moving a few miles away. It wasn’t only supply wagons moving through the Gap, but soldiers too, and he and Maglor only just made it back to the shelter of the hills without being discovered. 

“Now what?” Maglor asked as he caught his breath. 

“We wait for the morning, and then we go,” Celegorm said reluctantly. He wanted to move on immediately, but they couldn’t push the horses that far, and he would be able to track their quarry better in daylight. They couldn’t help Eluréd if they were ready to collapse from exhaustion by the time they caught up. He had to believe that the orcs wanted him alive—the same way they’d wanted Daeron alive. Otherwise they would have just found his body by the river. It wasn’t as comforting a thought as it should have been.

“Tyelko?”

“He’s going to be so scared,” Celegorm whispered. “He’s—”

“We’ll find him,” Maglor said.

“I know, but he—” His voice broke. “If he’s—”

“If they were going to kill him, they would have done it immediately,” Maglor said. 

“But you know that that’s not—that it’s often worse—” He closed his eyes and saw Celebrimbor, soaked in blood, and then white-faced and weak with fear. He saw Daeron, battered and bruised and shaking as he held the twins close after his own ordeal. He saw Maedhros lying in a bed as still as death, grey-faced, hair cut almost to his scalp to get rid of the matted and damaged snarls, skeletal, his right arm swathed in bandages down to his missing hand. And now Eluréd…

“Only if they get where they’re going before we can catch up,” Maglor said. “And we will catch up, Tyelko. There’s nothing that can hide from you, and I have not spent so many years by the shore without learning something of music from the Sea. And both of us have kept our blades sharp, even if we are out of practice in using them. They will be careful of him until they bring him to Sauron himself—and if they get that far, we’ll make sure Sauron won’t have time to do anything worse.”

“And if—if he catches you out the way he caught Fin—” He choked on Finrod’s name. 

“Then I’ll give him a show the same way Eluréd did in Ost-in-Edhil, to give you a chance like he gave Elurín to get Celebrimbor,” said Maglor. “And before you point out that he is unlikely to fall for the same trick twice, consider that he will not expect such a trick of me. And I’ll get away afterward because I won’t be fighting to win, not like he will be.”

That was true. Maglor had, long ago, not been suited to subtlety or to trickery—long ago he would probably have scoffed at the tricks they had used that night, let alone come up with the idea himself. His voice was loud and powerful and he had trained it to ring out across battlefields and the wide plains of Lothlann and Ard-galen. He had always been at the forefront of his cavalry’s charge. He would probably never do such a thing again, Celegorm thought, but Sauron might not think of that. Sauron might just be too surprised to find Maglor there at all to consider how he might have changed since the battles of the First Age. 

Celegorm turned and let his head fall onto Maglor’s shoulder, wishing—again—for their other brothers. There was still reason to hope, but it was so hard, in the dark with wolves in the distance and such recent evidence of what Sauron was capable of still fresh in his mind. But at least Celebrimbor and Elurín were safe—at least Daeron would get them through the Ents’ wood and up the river to Lórinand. All he had to focus on now was Eluréd. The oath he had sworn to Elurín had settled over him like a mantle, and he almost found the weight of it comforting, a familiar thing to guide his steps, pulling him forward—and this oath was not one he would ever regret swearing. If he failed he would deserve the Everlasting Darkness. Eluréd was worth so much more than the Silmarils had ever been. “I should have seen what happened to him,” he whispered.

“You know as well as I do that it’s impossible to see everything in a fight like that,” said Maglor.

“I didn't need to see everything. I needed to see my son.”

Maglor sighed. “I know. But this isn’t your fault, Tyelko—you would not be blaming Daeron if he were here, would you?”

“No, but…” That was different, but Celegorm didn’t think he would win the ensuing argument if he tried to explain why. 

They rested until dawn crept over the world, pale and grey. Then they went on, finding the trail of the orcs and riding hard to try to catch up, risking open travel in favor of speed. With their hoods up and wearing the same mail and cloaks that the other soldiers out of the east did, no one stopped them. They crossed over the Angren, where the trail mixed with others and became hard to see—and then near Tharbad, Celegorm spotted something by the side of the road, stepped on and pressed into the mud but just visible. He dropped out of the saddle to pick it up, and his heart sank.

“What is it?” Maglor asked. Celegorm held it out. It was a carved oak leaf on a broken leather thong, matching the aspen that Maglor now wore and the birch that Celegorm still had around his own neck. Maglor looked at it, expression grim. Then he said, “We’re on the right track. Maybe he dropped it on purpose.”

“Maybe.” 

They reached Tharbad, and Maglor cast a glamor over them similar to what Elurín had done for Celegorm long ago after the War of Wrath, so they could pass through without receiving undue notice. They were in luck: Sauron himself was not there, and his most powerful servants seemed to be either with him or back in the east. The ruined city was mostly empty, with companies of orcs or Men just passing through either east or west, with a small garrison to watch the bridge. All manner of languages were being spoken, only some of which Celegorm knew—a few dialects out of the east. He listened hard when he and Maglor crossed over the bridge, and finally heard what he wanted—a prisoner had been brought through and turned northwest, heading up the Road. No one seemed to know who he was, only that he was someone that Sauron would want to deal with personally, and that whoever had him was moving fast; orcs had brought him on foot, but Men had taken over, and seemed likely to run their horses nearly to the ground before they could find fresh mounts.

Through those same snatches over overheard conversation they also learned where Sauron was—or where he would be. He had been pursuing Gil-galad nearly as far as the River Lhûn, but would soon be heading east along the Road to set up a command post between the Mitheithel and the Bruinen, so as to lay siege to Elrond somehow, though still no one knew where he had vanished to in the mountains. It seemed he thought Gil-galad beaten back and no longer a threat, at least for the moment. Celegorm and Maglor exchanged a glance, and slipped out of the city as soon as they could, dodging patrols and avoiding the North Road. “Eluréd will be taken along the roads,” Maglor said once they were well away from Tharbad, “and they’re moving too quickly for us to catch up that way—even as fast as we’ve been going and as tireless as Lhimmir and Limral are, they have two days’ head start at least—and they do not have to pace ourselves as we do, for they can just get fresh horses whenever they need them. What if we follow the river instead, and make for the bridge? We may cut them off there.”

“Or we may miss them,” said Celegorm. “We’ll be going in a straight line, but they’ll have the roads while we’ll be picking our way through the wild.”

“And that will take them so far west that we may very well end up reaching the bridge at nearly the same time, even as fast as they’re going. No one will stop us if we follow the river—what reason would they have to be there? The only way to cross the Mitheithel is the bridge in the north, and the only good crossing of the Gwathló north of Lond Daer is Tharbad. We won’t catch up to them, Tyelko, not on the road—we won’t have a choice but to leave it and hide more often than we would wish, and that will slow us down. Stolen mail and simple glamors won’t save us if someone grows suspicious of two swift riders wearing no badges that stop for no one.”

He was right. Celegorm still hated it. There were still no good options, and whatever they did would leave Eluréd in the enemy’s hands much longer than anyone wished. He looked back toward the road, and then nodded. “We need to move fast.”

“Limral and Lhimmir can do it, and I have songs that will lend them and us strength if we need it.”

Celegorm leaned forward to rub Lhimmir’s neck. “I hate this,” he said. “Leaving him in their hands…”

“So do I, but I don’t think there’s a better or faster way we can reach him. We’ll have a greater advantage lying in wait than coming up from behind.”

“No, you’re right.” Celegorm took a deep breath. Just hang on, Eluréd. I’m coming, I swear, I’m coming. “Let’s go, then. No time to waste.”

They moved quickly and carefully. Near the river there was less devastation; some woods had escaped the fires, though not by much, and if they strayed too far from the riverbank they came upon pockets that were still smoldering. Everywhere, the air smelled of smoke, and every footfall sent ashes swirling. It was also silent. Even the river seemed muted. There were no birds. No animals. Precious little to forage even if they could spare the time. The sky remained heavy with clouds, flat and colorless, but it never rained. They cut away from the Gwathló when it veered farther east, and headed directly northwest until they came to the Mitheithel with its steep and rocky embankments, and saw no orcs, no soldiers—heard nothing but the wind and the very distant howling of wolves. Every day that passed brought them closer to their goal, but it felt as though they only took them farther and farther away from Eluréd.

“Is this better or worse than your flight across Eriador with Daeron?” Celegorm asked once, when they stopped to rest. 

“Better in that we aren’t being pursued,” Maglor said. “Worse in that we are headed into danger rather than away from it. Better in that I know Tyelpë is all right, and on his way somewhere safe. Worse in that I know Eluréd isn’t, and that Elurín will be out of his mind with worry.”

“Did Elrond and Elros ever get separated like this?”

“No, not like this—not for so long. Or at least not while they were with me. And when they were parted at the last—it was their own choice, if the tales are true.”

“They are.”

“I’m glad you got to meet Elros, though,” Maglor said softly. “Even if neither of you knew who you were.”

Celegorm reached for his hand. “I’m sorry you never got to say goodbye,” he whispered.

“I did say goodbye—I knew when we parted that I would never see them again.”

“You’ll see Elrond.”

“Maybe.” Maglor squeezed his hand once and let go. “We should keep going.”

Finally, they saw the bridge in the distance, and the line of the Road stretching east and west on either side of the Mitheithel. To the east, woods yet untouched by Sauron’s devastation loomed over the northern side of the road. Celegorm was glad to see it—hoped that they would provide shelter, a place to hide. He saw movement near the bridge, which he had expected, and as they drew closer he saw more some miles to the west, which he had not. “Oh no,” Maglor murmured.

“What?”

“That is Sauron himself, I think—marching east.”

Celegorm closed his eyes, breathing a few curses. “He has Eluréd already, then.” There was no way those carrying Eluréd up the road would not have met with Sauron if he had been that far west. They’d been counting on him having already crossed the Mitheithel, on having to deal only with those who had taken Eluréd.

“I think we can cross the bridge before they reach it,” said Maglor, “if we hurry. They’re miles away still, and not moving fast. I don’t think they’ll reach the bridge until tomorrow.”

“The bridge is held—”

“I’ll sing the guards to sleep again—that way no one will mark our passage, and we can hide in the trees and wait for our chance. And then when we’ve got him we’ll make for the Bruinen and hope Lhimmir and Limral are faster than any horses the Enemy has.”

At their best, Celegorm had no doubt that Lhimmir and Limral could outrun anyone Sauron sent after them. But they’d been pushing both the horses and themselves hard, and if they made it across the Bruinen without being caught it would be a miracle. He was going to have to do something very stupid, he thought. He looked east, and swallowed a little bit of hysterical laughter—all that worrying about what Galadriel would say when she learned the truth of him, and it wouldn’t matter, because he wouldn’t be there to hear it.

Daeron was never going to forgive him.

“The bridge is held on both sides of the river,” he said. “Let’s just make a run for it—they’ll look for us, but probably not that hard, since we’re only two and no one will know who we are, and they might not think it matters much if we make it across the Bruinen ahead of them.”

“If they get a look at us they will. Especially you—if Sauron hears of a silver-haired Elf with scars on his face, he’ll know that someone is coming for Eluréd.”

“Then just sing up a glamor like you did in Tharbad. Anyone who looks close enough at my face to see through it will end up dead, anyway.”

Maglor was looking at him with a frown. “Celegorm, what are you planning?”

“Nothing. I can’t plan anything yet—we don’t know what he’s going to do. But I swore I would get Eluréd back, and I’m going to do it. Let’s just go. The sooner we get across the bridge the sooner we can find a good place to hide and wait.”

They were in luck. Those guarding the bridge did not expect a pair of riders to come bursting out of the brush by the side of the road. Maglor’s sword flashed, and Celegorm followed after him. The orcs mostly chose to throw themselves out of the way rather than be ridden down, and those on the other side were not much braver. Maglor led the way until they were out of sight of the bridge before turning into the trees and slowing. “Now we’ll go back a little ways,” he said, “and I’ll hide us.”

Pursuers came down the road after some time, but did not stop to look toward the forest. Celegorm stood and watched the road, stroking Lhimmir’s neck and praying that Eluréd was all right. That whatever Sauron might be planning had not yet happened. Just let him be all right, please let him be all right.

They had to wait another day before Sauron’s armies passed by, carrying his banners with that terrible red eye. Sauron himself was not quite at the head of the first companies; he came a little after, and he was much more watchful than Celegorm had hoped, his gaze lingering on the trees. Maglor had taken Daeron’s teachings and adapted them to his own skills and cloaked them in shadows that even Sauron could not pierce—but that was only, Celegorm realized with a sinking feeling, because he was not really looking. Not for them, specifically; he was wary but not quite suspicious. If he wanted to find them, he would. He could also see the glint of gold on Sauron’s finger, and felt faintly sick to his stomach.

Then Maglor grabbed his arm, grip tight enough to bruise, and Celegorm realized a second later why. Just behind Sauron was Eluréd, bound tight with ropes, though Celegorm didn’t think they were needed. Bruises bloomed across what skin was visible through his torn and bloodied clothes, and over his face. A cut across his cheekbone bled sluggishly. His hair had been cut short, falling in uneven tangles over his eyes and around his shoulders as though someone had just taken his long braid and sliced through it with a sword. He rode in a cart like a piece of baggage, though there was nothing else in it—nothing to cushion him from the jolts and shakes whenever the wheels hit a rut in the road. It looked like there was something wrong with his legs. Tears had left pale tracks through the blood and dirt on his cheeks.

Only Maglor’s grip and the knowledge that it wouldn’t do any good kept Celegorm from charging out then and there—just grabbing Eluréd and racing away. There were too many orcs, too many archers—he probably wouldn’t even reach the cart. “When they stop for the night,” Maglor breathed in his ear. “We’ll get him then, while they’re still setting up camp—I’ll distract him, and you grab Eluréd, and then we’ll make for the ford.”

“I’ll get him out but you need to take him afterward,” Celegorm whispered back. “You’re the faster rider and I’m the better shot—I’ll cover you.” As the cart drew even with them Eluréd stirred, opening his eyes. He sat facing the trees, and when he looked up his eyes met Celegorm’s, and went wide. Of course he could see straight through even Maglor’s enchantments—they weren’t meant for him. Celegorm immediately put a finger to his lips. Eluréd’s gaze flicked toward Sauron and then back to him, and he shook his head ever so slightly. 

And then he was past them. His gaze lingered on the trees before he let himself slump sideways, lowering his head until his face could not be seen; his shoulders shook like he was struggling not to cry, and Celegorm wanted to break something. He wanted to break Sauron. 

“Tyelko,” Maglor said in his ear. “Come on.”

Even picking their way through the pathless woods they were faster than the army, and had to backtrack a little late in the afternoon when Sauron indicated he wished to stop—earlier than they’d expected. As activity erupted, the army preparing to bed down for the evening, Celegorm turned to press his face against Lhimmir’s neck. Then he pulled out Elurín’s bow and hoisted himself into the saddle. His left shoulder twinged, and exhaustion pulled at him, but he ignored it. 

“Wait for me to distract him,” Maglor said from Limral’s saddle.

“How will I know when—”

“I don’t intend to be subtle. You’ll know. Once I have his attention I intend to kill as many orcs as I can before I catch up to you. I’m sure you’ll recognize the songs.” Maglor reached over to grasp the back of Celegorm’s neck, pressing their foreheads together for a moment. “Love you,” he said softly.

“Love you too,” Celegorm whispered.

He crept toward the edge of the woods as Maglor disappeared, heading back east. He took the carvings of the sparrow and the lark out of one of his saddlebags and slipped them into his pocket, rubbing his thumb briefly over the carven feathers. Then he put an arrow to the string and waited, trying to keep his breathing even. He could see the cart where Eluréd was still held, and as he watched a pair of orcs went to drag him out of it, throwing him to the ground as Sauron stepped forward. He said something in the foul language of the orcs, and whatever it was seemed to amuse all who could hear it. Eluréd kept his head bowed, until a pole was brought forward—the kind meant to carry a banner. Celegorm watched as the ropes were cut from his arms, and the orcs pulled him up again to tie him to the pole, arms outstretched. His blood ran cold. Eluréd didn’t even try to struggle. It looked like his legs had been broken—he couldn’t run even if he had the chance. Sauron stepped forward to grip Eluréd’s chin in his hand, but Celegorm couldn’t hear whatever he said. He couldn’t tell, either, whether Eluréd answered. He must have, because Sauron’s hand reared back and Celegorm could hear the strike from where he was, saw Eluréd’s head snap to the side. The cut on his cheek opened again, blood trickling down to his chin. Lhimmir tossed his head, and Celegorm urged him forward a few steps, almost to the edge of the trees. Where was Maglor? Sauron grabbed Eluréd again, this time by the hair, and pressed a knife to his cheek, under the first cut, new blood welling up along the edge of the blade.

Finally, Maglor’s voice rang out, as loud as waves crashing against a cliff side, unmistakable. “Abhorred one!” The orcs and even the Men in the encampment quailed, and Sauron turned sharply. Eluréd’s head dropped forward; he didn’t move. Celegorm could see his chest heaving as though he was struggling to breathe. From down the road Maglor called out, “Release to me Celebrimbor son of Curufin of the House of Fëanor, and maybe I will spare your life!”

Oh, that was clever. Celegorm raised his bow as Sauron turned fully away from Eluréd, stalking away toward the sound of Maglor’s voice. With Eluréd apparently not who Maglor was after and unable to try to escape himself, he didn’t bother ordering a closer guard on him. Celegorm waited, and waited, and then fired several arrows in quick succession. The orcs standing around Eluréd dropped, and Celegorm charged forward, drawing his sword as he went. He didn’t have Maglor’s power, but he hadn’t spent all those years with Daeron without learning something; the orcs fell away before him when he shouted, and he reached Eluréd before even Sauron knew what was happening—and by then Maglor had him fully engaged, his voice echoing around them, slicing through the cacophony of cries that rose from the orcs as many of them fell prone or turned and fled. The ropes fell away when Celegorm cut through them, and he caught Eluréd in his arms, pulling him up into the saddle before him. Back down the road Maglor raised his voice even louder, beginning a battle song out of the old wars—the kind of song that had cut through battalions and turned the tide of battles nearly lost; after just a few seconds Sauron’s rose in answer.

Eluréd gasped, white-faced with pain as Lhimmir wheeled to charge down the road. His hands scrabbled over the mail that Celegorm wore before catching on his cloak and gripping tight. “Atya—”

“I’ve got you.”

“But—”

“Just hang on. The Bruinen isn’t far.”

Soldiers surrounded them. Lhimmir reared back with a whinny, kicking out as Celegorm wrapped one arm around Eluréd and wielded his sword with the other. The fight was fierce, but neither Celegorm nor Lhimmir were about to give up now, so close to the end, and finally they broke free, leaping over the last quailing orcs as Maglor’s song swept down the road over them. Blood flowed from several cuts along Lhimmir’s shoulders and flanks but he seemed not to notice them as he lengthened his stride, soon out pacing all who tried to give chase. Celegorm could already feel bruises forming where the mail he’d stolen had taken blows from both arrows and blades.

Maglor’s voice behind them was thunderous, drowning out even Sauron's as he attempted to counter it. When that fight ceased abruptly, Celegorm glanced over his shoulder and saw Maglor swiftly catching up, leaving chaos in his wake. He slowed, and when Maglor finally reached them he said, “Take him, go, go!”

“Lossë!” Eluréd grabbed for Celegorm as Maglor took him onto the saddle in front of him. “No! No, Atya don’t—”

“It’ll be fine, birdie. I’ll cover you. Maglor, go.”

“Don’t be stupid, Tyelko,” Maglor said, and then he was gone. Celegorm drew his bow and looked back again. Sauron was giving chase. The first arrow he shot went wide; he shot again, and then there wasn’t time for more. He charged after Maglor. Ahead loomed some hills through which the road passed in a deep cut, all in shadow. Maglor and Eluréd vanished into it. Beyond it flowed the Bruinen. Behind them, Sauron’s voice rose like the roar of a wildfire.

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Eventually, they had to leave the foothills of the mountains—it was too treacherous, and even Daeron agreed that they needed to move faster. East of the Bruinen there were bands of roving orcs, but no organized companies, and they were easy to evade—or to kill, Elurín making quick work of them, as unerring as Celegorm with his bow—and when the lands opened up away from the mountains the horses were eager to race through the grasses and over the hills. So many days in the saddle with little rest, though, left Celebrimbor aching all over, and it got harder and harder to hide—not that he’d really fooled either Elurín or Daeron in the first place. 

“I can rest when we find Elrond,” he told Daeron. They had stopped to rest the horses, hidden in a thick stand of fir trees. Elurín had slipped away to scout ahead. The river was just visible in the distance, glimmering faintly whenever the sun broke through the clouds, which was rare. The land seemed mostly untouched here, at least by fire. Were it not for the unnatural silence, Celebrimbor might have been fooled into thinking nothing was wrong. 

“I’m just afraid we’ve made it worse,” Daeron said as he examined Celebrimbor’s wrists. The skin was tender; he’d been dreaming of Eregion again, waking with the taste of blood in his mouth and Sauron-Annatar’s voice in his head, demanding either the Three or something else—sometimes Elurín, sometimes his uncles, sometimes entirely nonsensical things. “You should not be in this much pain. It’s been months.”

“You said I would be slow to heal.”

“Not this slow.” Daeron sighed and sat back on his heels. “You should be in Lórinand, now, in the care of real healers.”

“I don’t want to be in Lórinand, not with all the rest of you here,” said Celebrimbor. 

“We should all be in Lórinand. Have my songs been helping? Please tell me the truth.”

“Yes, they help, truly. And—we should be nearly there, shouldn’t we?”

“We are,” said Elurín as he returned. “We should reach the ford by tomorrow—and then Lindir said to turn east and go carefully.”

“And hope that Elrond and Celeborn are sending out patrols, so they can find us instead.” Daeron sighed again. He looked as tired as Celebrimbor felt. “And hope that they know something of what is happening on the other side of the river.”

Elurín nodded. Celebrimbor watched him and thought that he would not be content to stay in hiding. He would try to leave again. The thought filled Celebrimbor with dread—as bad as the knowledge that both of his uncles were chasing after Sauron himself, and that Eluréd was already in his clutches. Daeron took the first watch, and Celebrimbor lay down, huddled under his blanket and his cloak, hating the silence. Elurín curled up beside him, and without thinking Celebrimbor reached for his hand. “My uncles will find him,” he whispered.

“I know,” Elurín whispered back. “That’s not what frightens me.”

“Please don’t do anything reckless.”

Elurín squeezed his hand. “I can’t make that promise. I am only half myself without my brother. Where he goes, I go.”

“Elurín—”

“You’ll be all right. I’ll make sure you get to Elrond before I go after Eluréd.”

“That’s not—”

“Shh. Rest, now.” There was power in Elurín’s words, and Celebrimbor found himself sinking into sleep before he could even try to resist it. He did not wake until the morning, when Elurín roused him. They ate a little, and then continued on, following the river, slowly closing the distance. The hills were covered in sweet-smelling heather, purple and white, interspersed occasionally with bright yellow patches of gorse. They were lovely, and the mountains rising up behind them were beautiful too, in a wilder, dangerous sort of way. 

But Celebrimbor couldn’t appreciate any of it. He sat behind Elurín in the saddle, dread growing in him. He didn’t know what it was until very late in the afternoon when they saw the Road in the distance, and the place where the Bruinen widened a little, shallow enough to ford. “He’s close,” Celebrimbor said, realizing abruptly that the dread was not only coming from inside himself. “The Enemy. He’s close.”

“He is yet on the other side of the river,” said Daeron. 

“Yes, but…”

They came to the ford at last, late in the afternoon, and then turned east to head into the hills. “We’ll find somewhere to rest for the night, somewhere hidden,” Daeron said as they passed out of sight of the Bruinen, “and then come morning—” A thunderous voice erupted behind them, and they all twisted in the saddle. “Is that—”

“Maglor,” Celebrimbor breathed.

“Elurín, wait!” Daeron reached over, but Elurín was already out of the saddle and racing back toward the river on foot, bow in hand. “Stay here!” Daeron ordered Celebrimbor before turning to go after him. Celebrimbor hesitated, and then grabbed Rhawhul’s reins to follow after Daeron. There was nothing he could do, but he at least wanted to see what was happening. He left Rhawhul hidden behind some heather and then climbed a low hill, crouching in the grass just so he could see the river. 

A horse came racing out of the hills where the road disappeared into shadows, dark hair flying in the wind. Maglor—and he had someone on the saddle in front of him. A moment later Celegorm followed, but he stopped to empty his quiver, arrow after arrow. Not far from Celebrimbor, Daeron had caught up to Elurín and they were arguing fiercely. 

Then Sauron emerged from between the hills, orcs spilling out behind him—though fewer than Celebrimbor would have expected, and they did not seem eager for a fight. Celegorm’s last arrow should have found its mark, but it seemed to vanish before it struck. He drew his sword instead, and turned to follow after Maglor. 

Maglor and Eluréd reached the river, hardly slowing before they hit the water with a splash. Elurín broke away from Daeron and ran for the water’s edge, reaching it just as they made the eastern bank. Celebrimbor heard Maglor cry out in surprise, but he kept his gaze on Celegorm, who had slowed and turned back again. He shouted something, but Celebrimbor didn’t catch the words. 

Sauron caught up. For a few seconds it almost seemed that Celegorm would hold his own, but then terrible blow knocked him from the saddle, and he landed hard on his left shoulder. He’d gotten chain mail from somewhere, and now it broke under the force of Sauron’s blade, rings scattering across the road. Celebrimbor lurched to his feet as Celegorm rolled over, grabbing his sword as he got to his feet. Sauron dismounted and brought his sword down, but Celegorm dodged out of the way and went on the offensive, though blood flowed down his chest, until Sauron was driven back, step by step. Some of the orcs skirted around the fight to head for the river, but when they reached the banks Elurín shot them. 

Then Sauron kicked out at Celegorm, catching him in his chest and sending him flying several feet before he hit the ground hard. His sword flew out of his hand, and he fumbled for his bow, raising it just as Sauron brought his sword down in a great arc that would have sliced both bow and body in two, were the bow not Elurín’s, made of dragon horn, far stronger than any wood. Near the river someone cried out. The bow held up, but Celegorm’s left arm quivered and then gave out, and the tip of Sauron’s sword pierced the ground by his head, and part of the blade sliced deep into his shoulder. Sauron leaned over and seemed to say something, but Celebrimbor couldn’t tell if Celegorm answered. 

Then Sauron looked up, straight at Celebrimbor. It was as though the distance between them shrank and all he could see were Sauron’s eyes, burning like flames, the color of molten gold. He couldn’t move, couldn’t even blink. “Annatar,” he whispered. “Please.”

Time seemed to slow down as several things happened at once. Behind Celebrimbor someone sounded a horn. In front of him Sauron raised his sword, ready to plunge it into Celegorm’s chest as he lay in the grass. As he did so, four voices rang out, screaming denials, and maybe other words that Celebrimbor couldn’t hear past his own desperate, “No!” The force of Daeron, Maglor, Eluréd, and Elurín’s voices seemed to hit Sauron like a physical blow, and he stumbled back a step—but Celegorm didn’t move. 

And at the same time a pale grey shape came bounding up the river, and slammed into Sauron just as he began to catch himself. As he fell, Celebrimbor’s knees also gave out and he gasped, suddenly able to take a breath as he hit the ground. Elurín grabbed Mithrenvos’ reins and raced back across the river, Maglor at his heels, but Celebrimbor couldn’t bear to watch what happened next. Daeron remained with Eluréd, kneeling on the riverbank; Eluréd did not look like he would be able to stand. Celebrimbor slid back down the hill and led Rhawhul around it. Lhimmir had crossed the river, but he was in no state to take a rider. “Go, go,” Celebrimbor said to Rhawhul, who broke into a trot toward Daeron and Eluréd. 

Maglor’s voice echoed over the river, though Celebrimbor couldn’t hear the words past the ringing in his own ears. He covered his face with his hands, but lowered them again when he heard voices and horses coming up behind him. When he turned he saw a company emerging out of the hills, having appeared as though out of thin air, carrying Elrond’s banner—Eärendil’s star gleaming on a dark field bounded by niphredil blossoms—with Elrond himself at the head. “Elrond!” he cried. 

Elrond held up a hand to stop his people as he drew to a halt, eyes going wide. “Celebrimbor? What—”

“Daeron and Eluréd—they’re by the river, they need help—and—” He faltered, realizing he didn’t know what was happening on the other side of the river. Whether Celegorm was even alive. He couldn’t make himself turn around to see.

Elrond called out to his soldiers, and as most of them rode on toward the river, he dismounted and caught Celebrimbor when he swayed on his feet. “I won’t ask what happened yet, for it’s clearly a long tale—but are you hurt?” he asked. 

“Yes,” Celebrimbor said, because it was never any use trying to lie to Elrond, “but not—I’m all right for now. It’s Eluréd who’s hurt. And—Loss—Lossenol. And—Elrond, I don’t know if you heard him, but—”

“I heard him,” Elrond said softly. “I nearly didn’t believe it. He’s really here with you?”

“Yes. As you said, it’s a long tale.”

“I can’t wait to hear it.” Elrond embraced him, briefly and carefully. “We thought you were dead, Celebrimbor. I’m so, so glad that we were wrong.”

“I’m sorry,” Celebrimbor whispered. “I’m—”

“It can wait. I know who else is on the other side of the river—we need to go, and quickly.” 

Horses returned around the hill, Elrond’s folk surrounding their own party: Daeron with Eluréd in the saddle with him, and Elurín coming up behind them, soaked and cradling Celegorm in his arms. Celegorm was pale and covered in blood, his eyes closed, unmoving. Celebrimbor couldn’t tell if he was breathing. He felt like he couldn’t breathe. “Elrond,” Elurín said, unsmiling but still clearly relieved, in spite of the way his eyes seemed to be burning with a light brighter than any Treelight that shone in the eyes of the Calaquendi. “I’m very glad to see you.”

“And you, Uncle,” said Elrond, but his gaze was already straying past Elurín to Maglor, who brought up the rear. Neither of them said anything, though—there was no time. “We need to hurry. The valley is not far—can you all make it?”

“We’ve made it this far, we can make it a little farther,” said Daeron. “You needn’t worry about anyone crossing the river. Elurín and Maglor called a flood down out of the mountains—it will be uncrossable for days.”

“My Lord Celebrimbor.” Someone brought an extra horse, and Elrond helped Celebrimbor drag himself into the saddle. 

As he took up the reins something cold and wet hit the back of his leg. He looked down and found Huan looking back up at him, blood staining his muzzle but his dark eyes knowing and soft and familiar. Celebrimbor’s throat went tight, and he leaned down to run his fingers through Huan’s wet fur. “I’m very glad to see you,” he murmured. 

“Tyelpë?” Maglor fell in beside him as the company headed out. “What are you doing here? You were supposed to go to Lórinand.”

“Elurín wouldn’t go, and Daeron and I weren’t going to let him come this way alone,” said Celebrimbor. “We were careful. And we met a messenger from Elrond on our way, so word will reach Galadriel of me, anyway—though not yet of you.” He looked ahead toward the twins and Daeron and Celegorm. “Is—is he—”

“He’s alive. I don’t know more than that.” Maglor reached out to lightly touch Celebrimbor’s shoulder. “He’s in good hands, though. He and Eluréd.” Celebrimbor nodded. And they were safe—the river was blocked for the time being, and by the time anyone got past it they would be secure in Elrond’s hidden valley. 

They rode through the rest of the afternoon into the evening, moving quickly until Elrond halted them suddenly, and then at the head of the company Celebrimbor saw riders just start vanishing downward behind the heather. When it came to his turn he found a narrow switch-backing path going down a slope so steep it was nearly sheer; looking straight down made him feel dizzy for a moment, before he lifted his gaze again. Beyond the path opened up a valley, filled with water—a river and many streams, and waterfalls tumbling down the mountainsides that loomed up just beyond it. There were many trees there, and in the center a very large encampment, as well as a large building. It was not yet fully dark, so Celebrimbor could see that the building was a sprawling thing, still under construction, but finished enough that people were already living in it. There was a wooden bridge over the river, and lights were on in the windows. He could faintly smell woodsmoke. 

At the bottom they rode through the valley and across the bridge, and there Elrond gave orders for Celegorm—still called Lossenol—and Eluréd to be taken inside to the infirmary. Celebrimbor then found himself ushered along to the same wing. He protested, and was simply told that there were enough beds to go around, and that Daeron and Elurín had told Elrond all about his injuries on the ride there. “I—wait, where’s—” He turned and found Maglor following after. The healers looked mistrustful, but when Celebrimbor grasped his hand and didn’t let go, they didn’t try to argue about it. They were led to a small room with a window that opened out to a view of the river, open to let in the fresh breeze. A washbasin had been filled and soap and clean clothes set out. It smelled faintly of herbs. The healers left them alone with instructions that Celebrimbor wash and change and try to rest, since he was not in immediate danger—and Elrond, or someone, would come see him in the morning.

“What about Eluréd? And Lossenol?” Celebrimbor asked.

“Elrond is with them,” he was told, “and our other most skilled healers.”

“But are they going to—”

“I don’t know, my lord. I’m sorry. But someone will come with news as soon as it is known.”

“I’ll slip out and see in a little while,” Maglor said when they were alone. “Here, let me help you, Tyelpë.”

“What about you? Are you—”

“I strained my voice a little,” said Maglor, smiling slightly. He had been speaking very quietly, and sounded hoarse, as Celebrimbor had heard him before after battles, long ago. “As long as I don’t have to shout at anyone, I’ll be fine—so I’d best avoid speaking to Tyelko for a few days.”

“Why would you…”

“Did you see—by the river?”

“Yes.”

“He shouldn’t have stayed behind. I don’t know why he did—we could have all made it and then sung down the flood, even if Daeron and Elurín had not been there. I’ll be furious with him as soon as I’m done being terrified. I think Daeron feels the same.”

“Did—I didn’t see what happened at the last, after Huan arrived.”

“Do you remember the tales of Thorondor marring Morgoth so his face was forever scarred?”

“Yes?”

“I think Sauron will have a few similar scars—this is the second time he has lost to Huan, though, and he will not forget it. And I think Huan was only able to get the upper hand because his arrival was such a surprise. It bought us time, though, to get back across the river and get Tyelko. How badly he’s hurt, I can’t say.”

There had been so much blood. “His left arm…”

“He’s weak on that side in general,” Maglor said, sighing. By then Celebrimbor was as clean as he had the patience to get, so they set the washcloths aside and Maglor helped him into the clean clothes. They were soft and smelled faintly of pine. “He and I have spoken a little of how you remind us of Maedhros, you know.”

“Me?” Celebrimbor sat down hard on the bed and then winced as every single part of his body seemed to protest. 

“In Mithrim. After Thangorodrim.” Maglor sat next to him, taking his hands. “In some ways, anyway. But there are some ways that Celegorm also reminds me of Maedhros—not Maedhros at Mithrim, but Maedhros…nearer the end of his life. Weighed down and—liable to disregard his own safety.”

“Is…is there anything we can…”

“He’s got more reasons not to throw his life away than Maedhros did,” Maglor said, “but at the same time—more reasons to consider that kind of sacrifice worth it. He swore to get Eluréd out of the Enemy’s clutches, and I think he was prepared to do whatever he had to to keep that oath.” He rose and went to the pitcher that had been set beside the basin. “Here. Drink some water and lie down. I can tell you’re in pain. Isn’t it getting any better?”

“No, but I’ve been in the saddle for weeks.” He didn’t say that he didn’t know what he would do if Elrond couldn’t help. If there wasn’t a way to stop hurting, at least, even if he never got his full strength back. He could live with weakness, he thought, as long as he could still use his hands. He wasn’t sure he could live with the constant ebb and flow of pain. 

“Then try to rest. I’m going to see if I can find Daeron and find out what’s going on. I’ll be back soon.”

“Will you stay, after?”

“Of course, Tyelpë.”

Celebrimbor drank the water, poured himself a second cup, and then sank down onto the pillows. That helped his aching muscles, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to rest until he knew for sure whether Celegorm would survive the night. Eluréd would, he was sure—he’d been awake and alert on the ride to the valley, though he’d been silent and seemed to have shrunk into himself, often hiding his face in Daeron’s shoulder as Daeron murmured in his ear. Elurín, on the other hand, had seemed to have grown in stature, luminous in his fury that had not abated by the time they got to the valley. He’d been similarly quiet, but Celebrimbor also had not been close enough to try to speak to him.

After so many days on the move, living out of each other’s pockets, it felt strange to not have Elurín within arm’s reach. He didn’t think he liked it. 

When the door opened again, though, it was Elurín who stepped through. Celebrimbor sat up. “Maglor’s staying with Daeron,” Elurín said. “I was sent away so the healers could actually do their jobs.” He grimaced as he spoke, apparently quoting someone. He had also cleaned up and changed into new clothes; his hair was loose, tumbling shadow-dark over his shoulders. His eyes had lost that strange shine that Celebrimbor had seen before, and he looked like himself again—no longer furious, just exhausted, afraid, and close to tears. “I’m supposed to be resting but I don’t want to—I can’t be alone. So Maglor sent me here.”

“I don’t want to be alone either.” Celebrimbor opened his arms, and Elurín all but fell into them, still not weeping but trembling. “How are they?”

“Eluréd—he’ll be all right, I think. They hurt him but it was—they were careful, before they could bring him to—the Enemy. His legs are broken but I think that’s the worst of it. And then he—” Elurín his his face in Celebrimbor’s shoulder. “I don’t know what exactly he had planned, but he didn’t get to do it. Or much of it. But no one would tell me anything of Lossë.”

“Does anyone yet know who he is?” Celebrimbor asked.

“I don’t think so. It’s only a matter of time, especially if Huan keeps sticking close to him—I can’t believe I just said that out loud—”

“I know,” Celebrimbor said, and found himself laughing a little—the kind of hysterical laughter that came when one was trying very hard not to cry. “Huan is here. I don’t—I don’t understand how.”

“A boat, probably,” Elurín said without lifting his head. “Númenor has dealings with Eressëa, don’t they?”

“That’s true, I suppose he could’ve just…snuck onto a ship? Two ships—one from Avallónë and another from Rómenna?”

“There must be some very confused dockworkers in Lond Daer or Mithlond. And perhaps some even more confused sailors.”

“You think he just hid himself in the hold, and they were all left to wonder where the food was going?”

Both of them dissolved into helpless laughter at that thought, of Huan hidden away among boxes and crates throughout the voyage and the sailors none the wiser. Celebrimbor fell back onto the pillows, and Elurín curled up next to him. Laughing was better than crying, he supposed, but there was only so long they could distract themselves like that. Elurín shifted a little so his head was pillowed on Celebrimbor’s shoulder. “Is this all right?” he asked.

“It’s fine.”

“You’re still in pain, though.”

“It’s not too bad right now.” Celebrimbor turned his head and found Elurín’s face closer than he’d thought—close enough to touch noses. “Someone will come poke and prod at me in the morning,” he said, hoping Elurín wouldn’t notice the sudden and unaccountable racing of his heart. 

“Good,” Elurín whispered. “I don’t want to fear for you, too. I don’t think I have room inside me for all this fear.”

“You don’t have to fear for me. I’m not going to fade, or anything,” Celebrimbor said, remembering Maglor’s words from earlier. He didn’t know if that was really what Maglor feared—Maedhros hadn’t faded, either—but he was not going to turn into his uncle, either. He wouldn’t allow himself to. “Do I need to fear for you?”

Elurín didn’t answer immediately, which was worrisome in itself. Then he said, “I don’t think so. I do not feel as though I am in danger—as long as nothing else happens to Eluréd. But if Atya—if he doesn’t—I don’t know what that will do to Eluréd. Or—any of us. He tried to consign himself to the Everlasting—”

“Only if he failed to rescue Eluréd—but he did. That oath is fulfilled.”

“I know. Just—he was very quick to reach for it, and I don’t like it.”

Celebrimbor sighed, and turned his head to stare back up at the ceiling. “I think Maglor will take him to task for it, when he’s well enough,” he said. “Daeron too, probably.”

“I hope so,” Elurín said. “I hope they get the chance.”

“They will. Were you not the one who told me that all of us were alive when by rights we shouldn’t be? If that meant something then, it means something now.”

“It’s easy to be hopeful when you’re far away from everything that’s really happening,” Elurín whispered. He turned his face to hide in Celebrimbor’s shoulder again. “You’re sure you don’t need me to move?”

“Please don’t move,” Celebrimbor whispered.

Even as tired as he was, Celebrimbor hadn’t expected to fall asleep or stay asleep, but it seemed that he closed his eyes just for a moment, and when he opened them it was to the door opening in the morning and Maglor coming in. He looked like he’d not slept at all—he hadn’t even changed out of his traveling clothes. Elurín stirred, and then sat up. “Are they—”

“Eluréd is awake and asking for you,” Maglor said. “Celegorm—isn’t. But Elrond is hopeful. He’s also going to come to see you in a little while, Tyelpë.”

“What about you?” Celebrimbor asked.

“I promised I’d get some rest after I spoke to the two of you.” Maglor came over to kiss the top of Celebrimbor’s head, and to rest a hand for a moment on Elurín’s shoulder. “They’re going to be all right, and we’re safe here—as safe as it is possible to be in Eriador these days, I think.”

“Thank you,” Elurín said. “Maglor, thank you, for—”

“You needn’t thank me, Elurín.”

“Please get some rest now,” said Celebrimbor.

Maglor smiled at him. “I am, I promise. You don’t have to join the chorus.”

“Where’s Daeron?” Elurín asked as Maglor moved back to the door.

“Either with Eluréd or—well, I should be calling him Lossenol, I suppose.”

“Then we’re going to keep that a secret?” asked Celebrimbor. “That won’t work for long.”

“Daeron is explaining it to Elrond as we speak,” said Maglor, “but it seems best to wait at least until he wakes to reveal it to anyone else.”

“You think Huan isn’t a big enough clue?” asked Elurín as he rose from the bed.

“It’s just as plausible that Huan is here for you,” said Maglor. “For the moment he isn't allowed in either room, and has planted himself in the hallway outside of them.” He smiled, a little sad and a little fond. “I do not know what miracle has brought him back to these shores, but I do not think I have ever been so happy to see that big furry menace.”

He left, and Elurín quickly ran his fingers through his hair before braiding it back out of his face. “Do you want me to stay until Elrond comes?”

“No,” said Celebrimbor. “Go to Eluréd. I’ll be fine.”

“All right.” Elurín leaned down suddenly to embrace him. “I can’t believe we all made it,” he whispered. “I’ll see you in a little while, I suppose.”

“I’ll probably come to find you after Elrond’s finished with me, if I don’t fall asleep again.”

After Eluréd left, Celebrimbor got out of bed, wincing as sore muscles protested, and went to the window. Without the trampled ground and rows of tents, the valley would be gorgeous. Even with the army encampment it was lovely. He heard birdsong, and almost couldn’t believe it after the eerie stillness and silence of the rest of Eriador. The sun on his face was warm, and when he leaned out of the window he glimpsed the walls of the Misty Mountains reaching high, high up out of sight, their distant peaks invisible through the wreaths of clouds that gave them their name. He smelled woodsmoke—but it was accompanied by the smells of roasting meat and baking bread, homey smells rather than the acrid stench of destruction. 

“Celebrimbor?” Elrond had come in while he was contemplating the sky, and Celebrimbor turned. Elrond smiled at him. He looked very tired, but then so did everyone else. “Come sit down. I’ve heard all about your ailments from Daeron.”

“What else did he tell you?”

“About your uncle, you mean? The truth—and I’m not going to tell anyone else until he wakes. Several things I used to wonder about make much more sense now, though.”

“Will he wake?” Celebrimbor sat on the bed, and Elrond brought a chair over so they could sit facing one another. “Please just—speak plainly, don’t try to comfort me. Is he going to live?”

“Yes,” Elrond said firmly as he leaned forward to help Celebrimbor out of his shirt. “I wasn’t sure at first—he’s lost a great deal of blood—but I stopped the bleeding, and he is resting now. He will wake. And I’m familiar with his older injuries—Elros and I tended to him after the War of Wrath—so I know the concerns about his left shoulder and arm. It has been re-injured, but I think it will heal well now that the initial danger is past, given time—if he is a cooperative patient.”

“Even though it was Sauron that did it?”

“My uncles and Daeron are powerful singers and skilled healers,” Elrond said as he examined the scars on Celebrimbor’s arm, “but they have not made as deep a study of it as I have. The healing will be slower, perhaps, than it should be, but he will heal. And so will you. I’ve seen wounds like this before.”

“To the body or the spirit?”

“Both.”

“And of those you’ve seen wounded in spirit like me,” Celebrimbor said after a moment, “how many found healing on these shores?”

“Almost all,” said Elrond. He looked up to meet Celebrimbor’s gaze. “I won’t ask yet what you endured in Ost-in-Edhil, but I might need to.”

“I don’t remember much of it. Just—he turned my own workshop into his torture chamber. He used my own tools to…”

“I’m sorry, Celebrimbor.”

“I do not know if I can ever pick up such things again,” Celebrimbor whispered. He had tried not to think about it over the course of the winter—not hard, when there were no such tools at hand and no reason to be thinking about crafting anything—and then during their flight north there had been even less opportunity for dwelling on it. But he knew what would be expected of him now that he was back among his own people—and he knew he couldn’t do it. Sauron had not managed to kill him, but he had still destroyed him. 

“We’ll see,” said Elrond. “It’s been less than a year—and no one will ask it of you here.”

“Won’t they? You’ll need craftsmen—”

“We have craftsmen. There some of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain who escaped here with us. Far too few, it is true—only a handful—but you know how skilled they are. And there are other craftsfolk with us from Lindon, and even some Dwarves. Word has spread of your arrival and they are all overjoyed with the news—but they also know that you were sorely injured and need time. You need not do anything except heal. I’ll deal with the rest.”

“I’m sorry,” Celebrimbor said after a little while, as Elrond finished his examination. His power felt like Elurín’s, which was comforting—but it also, like Elurín’s, held that echo of divinity that felt a little like Sauron, and Celebrimbor suspected that that was what kept him from responding to their healing songs as he should. Even if the feeling didn’t send him spiraling into terror anymore, he still felt himself recoil from it, and didn’t know how not to. “I’m sorry. For—I should have listened to you. In the beginning.”

“You did listen,” said Elrond. “I know you did, and I know you took us seriously—and I understand why you chose to take the risk. For a while I also believed you’d made the right choice, that perhaps we had been wrong. The news of his treachery caught us all by surprise.”

“Are—the Three, are they safe?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Tell me nothing more.”

Elrond squeezed his hand and rose. “I’m going to prepare something for you, and then I have some songs I want to try. They’ll send you to sleep for a few hours, probably, and if there is news of your uncle, I promise you’ll hear it as soon as you wake.”

Celebrimbor sighed. Sleeping the day away sounded nice, though he caught himself wishing he didn’t have to do it alone. “Thank you, Elrond.”

“You don’t have to thank me, Celebrimbor. I should be thanking you—all five of you, for finding Maglor and bringing him here.”

“I didn’t really have anything to do with that,” said Celebrimbor.

Elrond’s smile was slanted. “I think you had quite a lot to do with it. And I also need to find a way to thank my uncles for saving you. I’ll be back soon.”

As soon as the door clicked shut it was like the whole of the last year came crashing down on him at once. Celebrimbor fell back onto the bed, grabbing for the pillows to hide his face and muffle the sobs that tore their way out of his throat like screams. He wept until he couldn’t breathe, and then wept some more, until someone’s hand rested on the back of his head and a gentle voice—Elrond’s, of course—murmured a quiet song that eased him into a deep and dreamless sleep.

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The image of Celegorm on the ground at Sauron’s feet, Maglor was sure, would be burned into his mind forever. He saw it whenever he closed his eyes. The flash of Sauron’s sword, the way Celegorm hadn’t moved. The spill of his silver hair across the grass, the blood sinking into the dirt of the road. He was never going to forget how small and fragile his brother looked in that bed, swathed in bandages, pale as death, even as Elrond spoke of his recovery as though it was a sure thing and not the most desperate of hopes. 

Maglor had been given a small room just next to Celebrimbor’s, for the moment. After he spoke to Celebrimbor and Elurín, he retreated there, locked the door, shuttered the window, and allowed himself to crumple to the floor to fall apart. He wept until he ran out of tears, and then stayed huddled on the floor for a while, leaning against the wall, glad of the quiet and the dark and the smallness of the room. Outside was an entire army—more people than he’d walked among openly in centuries, and all of them knew that he was there, who he was. The thought alone was enough to send his heart racing and sweat prickling on his neck. 

And he hadn’t yet spoken to Elrond. It had been Daeron who asked the questions after Eluréd and Celegorm had been tended to. Maglor had hardly been able to look at Elrond—mostly because his attention had been on Celegorm, but also because he didn’t think he could. 

As he finally uncurled himself and went to dig through his pack for some clothes that wouldn’t be particularly clean but would at least not be covered in his brother’s blood, someone knocked on the door. His first instinct was to freeze and hope whoever it was just went away. Then he realized that was stupid, and he went to open the door.

It was Elrond. He stepped inside and shut the door behind him, and then threw his arms around Maglor, all before either of them could so much as take a breath. “Maglor—where have you been? I thought—I had started to believe you were dead—”

“I’m sorry,” Maglor whispered, eyes burning with fresh tears. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t—I thought—I thought a lot of things. I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

“I looked for you.”

“I know—”

“You knew?” Elrond drew back, shock and hurt coloring his face. “Then you—”

“No, that’s not—I’m sorry, I know now. Your uncles told me. Before then I had no idea that you’d searched for me, you or Tyelpë. I’m sorry.” He was apologizing too much, and he knew it, but he couldn't seem to stop. Not when there was so much to apologize for. 

Elrond searched his face. Maglor couldn’t guess what he saw there. In Elrond’s face he just saw sadness. “You’ve been alone for far too long, Maglor,” he said finally. “Please do not leave like that again—please don’t drive yourself into another exile.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Maglor said. “Or at least—I go where my brother goes.” He regretted the words as they left his mouth, because that was the reason he had parted from Elrond and Elros in the first place: Maedhros would not go with them to join Gil-galad, and Maglor had refused to leave Maedhros. 

But Elrond did not seem surprised—he seemed almost pleased. “Then I’ll make sure he stays,” he said, “and then I’ll get to have you and my uncles with me all at once and for good.”

“It won’t be that simple, Elrond. You know it can’t be.”

“I’ll make it that simple,” Elrond said fiercely. “I am in command here—if I say you all stay, then you all stay. Celeborn can argue all he likes, but I do not answer to him.”

“What about Gil-galad?”

“He’s always known that I looked for you, that I wanted to bring you home. I don’t know what he’ll say of Lossenol—of Celegorm, I mean, but I do know he will at least listen to me.”

Maglor pulled Elrond back into his arms. “You’ve grown up. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there—I’m sorry for all of it.”

“I know,” Elrond said. “I forgave you a long time ago. So did Elros. And—I have a letter from him to you, back home in Lindon. When this is over, would you like to read it?”

“Yes,” Maglor whispered, missing Elros so sharply that he couldn’t breathe with it. “Yes, of course.”

Elrond had other things to be doing, and Maglor really did need to get some sleep, so they parted after another few minutes. Elrond seemed reluctant, as though he expected Maglor to escape out of the window and vanish into the wilderness if he was left alone for too long. And he probably wasn’t wrong to worry, Maglor thought a little sourly as he washed his face and bandaged his own minor wounds before collapsing into the bed. The desire to escape the notice of everyone was very strong. If sharing a small cottage with five other people for less than a year had been overwhelming—a whole valley full of soldiers, few of which had any reason to look favorably on him, was so much worse. He wouldn’t run away, because he had promised he wouldn’t disappear, and he would not leave Celegorm or Celebrimbor no matter what happened, but he didn’t know how he was going to withstand all the scrutiny that awaited him outside of that little room. 

He slept for only a few hours, and woke without feeling particularly rested. A quick look in Celebrimbor’s room showed him to be deeply asleep. Then he went in search of Celegorm and Eluréd, finding instead Daeron in a heated conversation in the hallway with someone Maglor did not know, but who he guessed was Celeborn, once Prince of Doriath—Galadriel’s husband. He was tall and silver-haired, with some features that brought Eluréd and Elurín to mind, and had apparently just learned the truth of who Daeron’s companion Lossenol was. “—can’t believe you allowed him anywhere near them!” he was saying. His voice was ragged, like he hadn’t slept, and his eyes were bloodshot, with dark circles under them. 

“Well, if I hadn’t,” Daeron snapped, “we wouldn’t be having this argument right now, because all four of us would be dead!”

Celeborn’s gaze flicked over Daeron’s shoulder, and his scowl deepened upon seeing Maglor. “And now you’ve taken up with another one,” he said. “For someone who claimed to love Lúthien, Daeron, you have made some very strange choices in your companions since you left Doriath.”

Daeron didn’t answer immediately, and with a start Maglor realized it was because he was angry. His hands had balled into fists at his sides, and he seemed to grow a little, though maybe it was only because he’d thrown his shoulders back and lifted his chin, and his shadow seemed to grow darker and gather around him ominously; when he finally found his voice he kept it low, and the sound of it made the hair on the back of Maglor’s neck stand up. “You are overwrought, my lord, and so I will forgive you that. But I will not forget it.”

“He killed her son, Daeron!”

“Dior has already taken his revenge, and wherever he is he does not need you to mete out any more. I’ve had enough of this. Are you not needed elsewhere?”

“This conversation is not over,” Celeborn snapped, but he accepted the dismissal and turned away, soon disappearing around a corner. Daeron stood very still for a moment before he breathed put slowly, hands relaxing. The shadows returned to normal. Huan, lying on the floor near the door, whined. 

“So the secret is out, then,” said Maglor. 

“No. I do not think he will tell anyone.” Daeron sighed and turned to him. No longer angry, he just seemed tired. “He hasn’t woken yet.”

“Have you slept at all?”

“A little. Are you going to sit with Lossë?”

“Yes. Tyelpë is asleep, and I think Elurín is with Eluréd…?”

“Yes. I’m honestly surprised we were able to get him away last night, but at least he got some sleep.” Daeron sighed again and rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m going to check on them and then—I don’t know. Find somewhere to rest a little myself, I suppose.”

“If they haven’t found you a bed you can take mine. It’s just by Tyelpë’s room.”

“I might just. Thank you.” Daeron turned away, and then turned back. “Have you spoken to Elrond?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, good.”

Huan followed Maglor into Celegorm’s room. He lay on the bed looking exactly as he had when Maglor had seen him earlier that morning. Small and pale and too still. Maglor sank into the chair beside it, and Huan came to sit on the floor, resting his big head on Maglor’s lap. Maglor stroked his fur, and scratched behind his ears, and sighed. Then he reached for Celegorm’s hand. “You need to wake up, Tyelko,” he said softly. “You don’t get to leave me like this. Not now.” Huan licked Maglor’s arm very gently. 

After a while, Celegorm stirred. His fingers flexed around Maglor’s, and he turned his head slightly, good eye fluttering open. “Cáno…?”

“I’m here, Tyelko.” Maglor leaned forward. Celegorm’s gaze was hazy, and he seemed only barely awake—but it was better than the terrible silent stillness.

Celegorm blinked slowly. “Where…” Then his eyes opened wide and he tried to get up, though he wasn’t strong enough to move at all—Maglor didn’t even need to try to stop him. “Eluréd—”

“He’s fine. I promise, he’s here and he’s safe—just in the next room. We’re in Elrond’s hidden valley.” Maglor gripped Celegorm’s hand, and with his other hand he pushed Huan down. He didn’t even know if Celegorm would remember this later, and he did not want to confuse him any further by revealing Huan, since it seemed unlikely that Celegorm remembered anything with much clarity from the river. For the same reason, he decided not to tell him yet that Daeron, Elurín, and Celebrimbor were also there—not unless he asked. “He’s hurt, but Elrond has seen to him and he’s resting. He’s going to be all right.”

“Oh,” Celegorm breathed, and relaxed, sinking into the pillows, eyes falling shut. Tears slipped free, and Maglor wiped them away. “He’s—all right?”

“He is, I promise.”

“He shouldn’t…should—” 

“He’s not alone,” Maglor said. “And as soon as one of you can get out of bed, you can see him. How much pain are you in? Should I fetch a healer?”

“No,” Celegorm whispered. “No, just—are you—”

“I’m fine. I’m not hurt. Do you want me to sing you back to sleep?”

“Please,” Celegorm whispered. 

“Before I do, Tyelkormo,” Maglor said, and waited for Celegorm to open his eyes, “I need you to promise me you won’t try to sacrifice yourself like that again.”

“Can’t,” Celegorm said, trying and failing to smile. “Sorry.”

“It was needless, Tyelko. We could have made the ford—all of us—even if you hadn’t turned back.”

“Could—couldn’t—take the chance. Swore an—an oath.”

“Yes, and I’m going to have words about that, too,” Maglor said, and sighed. He wouldn’t get any promise out of him then, and they could have a proper fight about it when Celegorm was stronger. “Close your eyes, Tyelko. I’ll sing the pain away.”

Celegorm sighed and obeyed. Then before Maglor could start singing, he murmured, “Had—strange dream…Huan was…”

“Just rest, Tyelko.” Maglor grabbed Huan by the scruff of the neck when he tried to rise, pulling him back from the bed. Huan could have easily stood up anyway, but he sank silently back to the floor, head in his paws, eyes mournful. It took very little to sing Celegorm to sleep—to a proper, deep sleep without dreams. When he finished Maglor slipped out of the chair to kneel on the floor by Huan. “When he’s just a little stronger,” he said, scratching Huan behind the ears with both hands. “When he can stay awake for more than just a few minutes. Then you can show yourself. He’ll just be confused, now—even more than the rest of us, you ridiculous creature. However did you cross the Sea again?” Huan just huffed at him and licked up his face, much less carefully this time than he had before. “Ugh, stop!”

He went to the window, then, looking out toward woodlands. When he opened it the sounds of an army camp came in, but there was no urgency in them, and he could hear laughter and singing; there was also birdsong and the music of flowing water. Maglor breathed deeply the fresh air, and left the window open a little when he went back to Celegorm’s side. Healers came and went at times; they were pleased when Maglor told them that Celegorm had woken briefly, and all their words were encouraging. If they disapproved of Huan’s presence, they said nothing. If they guessed, as Celeborn apparently had, what Huan’s presence meant, they gave no sign. 

Elrond reappeared some time after noon to check on Celegorm himself, and then to insist that Maglor come join him and Celebrimbor to eat something. “Daeron is with my uncles again, and I think Lossenol is safe enough under Huan’s supervision.” Huan woofed from his position sprawled out half-under the bed.

“I don’t want him to wake up and see Huan only to think he’s dreaming,” Maglor said, giving Huan a hard look. Huan woofed again and settled back down. 

“They’ll both be fine,” said Elrond.

Celebrimbor was outside in a patch of sunshine, where a few tables had been set out near a large vegetable garden. He still looked tired, but the persistent pain he’d been in for months—and which he was not as good at hiding as Maedhros had once been—seemed to have lessened. “Do you anticipate being here long?” Celebrimbor asked Elrond as they sat down. The meal was already laid out—simple fare, soup and bread, but hearty and fresh from the kitchen. 

“Yes,” said Elrond. “Or at least we feel it’s better to act as though we will be. As soon as we received your warnings Gil-galad sent to Númenor for aid, but we had not heard back from Tar-Telperiën by the time I left Lindon. And—well, you know better than I do what the rest of Eriador looks like now, but I do not think there is any chance of escape in any direction until Númenor does come.” 

“I know very little,” Celebrimbor said. “We stayed as close to the mountains as we could, coming north—it was very quiet there, and we saw very few orcs.”

“You did not happen to meet any Elves, did you?” Elrond asked, a little hesitantly. 

“We did! We met Lindir some days ago—not far from the Redhorn Pass. He told us where to find this valley, more or less. There was no one watching the road to the mountains when we passed by—I don’t know why. I would have set a guard, but…”

“Perhaps he thinks it doesn’t matter,” said Elrond, visibly relaxing. “But Lindir is both quick and clever—that is why I sent him. And he will now have good news to take to Galadriel and Amdír. If you saw him near the pass, he may already be in Lórinand as we speak.”

Maglor was inclined to think it really didn’t matter—Sauron had already overrun all of Eriador, and only Lindon in the west and this valley in the east remained. What did he care if a messenger or two escaped over the mountains? They would bring no news but despair to Lórinand or the Greenwood, and even word of Celebrimbor’s survival would do little to lighten it. He said nothing, and just picked up a piece of bread to dip into the soup. If Elrond remained hopeful then there probably really was hope, and Maglor did not need to give voice to his inability to share it. He could barely find it in himself to hope that they would remain safe and hidden while Celegorm and Eluréd recovered. He remained quiet as Celebrimbor asked more about the valley, clearly hoping to give Elrond something to talk about to fill the silence so neither of them would have to. 

Elrond was kind enough to oblige, but only for a little while. Then he turned the tables and asked, “But how in the world did you get out of Ost-in-Edhil, Celebrimbor? Celeborn made it sound as though you intended to make your last stand there.”

“So I did.” Celebrimbor shrugged, and then winced, rubbing at a spot on his shoulder. “Eluréd and Elurín apparently had different ideas. From the way Elurín described it to me, they decided to more or less reenact Beren and Lúthien’s retrieval of the Silmaril—only I was the Silmaril, and I don’t think Eluréd’s songs put anyone to sleep. Only distracted—him. I don’t remember any of it.”

“Daeron and—Lossenol—and I followed Eluréd and Elurín north when we realized where they had gone,” Maglor said after a moment. “We arrived outside of Ost-in-Edhil in time to hear Eluréd’s singing to distract Sauron, and then to meet them when they escaped the city with Tyelpë. Daeron and I then led Sauron on a merry chase north and west, to give Lossenol and the twins a chance to escape south again, and then we made our way back to their home beyond the Ered Nimrais.”

“Beyond the Ered Nimrais—how long had they been living there?”

“Only a few years, I think. They came back west when trouble started brewing in the east, from the sound of it, and hadn’t yet had a chance to venture back into Eriador before the Enemy came marching through the Gap. Tyel—Lossenol found me on the beach near the mouths of the Angren, just before Eluréd and Elurín went north. I thought for a little while I’d finally lost my mind entirely—and I had no idea that any of this was happening until they told me of it.”

“Strange chance,” Elrond said, glancing between the two of them. “But I am very glad of it.”

“We are too,” Maglor said, managing a small smile. 

“I’d be even gladder if you actually ate your lunch—both of you.”

As Celebrimbor made a face and Maglor made a show of putting a large spoonful of soup into his mouth, Daeron wandered outside, looking tired and faintly lost. “Daeron,” Elrond said, rising. “Will you join us?”

“I ate already,” said Daeron, but he came to sit at the small table with them, across from Elrond and between Maglor and Celebrimbor. “How is Lossë?”

“He woke briefly this morning,” said Maglor, “but I only assured him that Eluréd was well. He wasn’t awake enough for more.”

Daeron nodded, relaxing a little. “Eluréd has been asking about him. I’m glad to have that much to share. And—Elrond, have you spoken to Lord Celeborn since this morning?”

“No, I haven’t seen him at all yet today. Did something happen?”

“Well, he’s no fool, and very quickly put the pieces together of Huan and Maglor and Lossë—and, I suppose, my old reticence from long ago. I fear he’s…”

“Quite angry,” Maglor said, keeping his voice mild, when Daeron trailed off. Celebrimbor grimaced.

Elrond sighed. “Well, he hasn’t spoken to anyone else of it—he is wise enough to know that that kind of rumor would only lead to trouble. The secret cannot and should not be kept forever, but until Lossenol is on his feet and able to defend himself, I would rather everyone go on thinking that there is only one of Fëanor’s sons here in this valley.”

“Well,” Celebrimbor said after a moment, “our original plan was to make for Galadriel in Lórinand. I’m rather glad we’ve ended up here instead, in spite of everything.”

“Galadriel will not be pleased with this news,” Elrond agreed. “What exactly will Lindir tell her?”

“Only that I am alive, and that Daeron, Elurín and I were separated from Lossenol and Eluréd on our way north. What she might find in her mirror, if she looks, I can’t guess. Daeron made one of his own this winter, and it showed little.”

“I’m not very good at that sort of thing,” said Daeron. “Eluréd fared a little better. He was able to see this valley.”

“That’s more than I’ve ever been able to do,” said Elrond. “I hate that kind of seeing. It always gives me a terrible headache. But Galadriel has tried to seek for you in the past, Daeron, and was not often successful.”

“By design,” Daeron said, a little ruefully. “Though I will not try to hide from her here—there would be no point, anyway. I don’t blame Celeborn for being angry, exactly, but I do wish he had not put it together so quickly. I’m sorry for bringing such trouble to you, Elrond.”

“You need not apologize,” Elrond said, startled. “It’s not your fault!”

“It really is.”

“Daeron loves to apologize for things that the rest of us would like to thank him for,” Maglor said. 

“And all of you keep wanting to thank me for things you should be angry about instead,” Daeron said. “Lossë was the only one who actually got angry with me for it—and even he forgave me much more quickly than I ever expected.”

“I think swearing a binding oath helped a great deal,” Maglor said. Elrond choked on his drink. “Sorry.”

“If someone is oath-bound I would like to know sooner rather than later,” Elrond said when he recovered.

“No one is oath-bound,” Daeron said. “Mine lasted only a single night—it was meant to make a point, nothing more. Lossë swore an oath to get Eluréd back—but that has of course been fulfilled.”

“Good,” said Elrond. “Please none of you swear any other oaths.”

“I think Lossenol’s was also to make a point,” Celebrimbor said after a moment. “Or—that’s not quite right. But he swore it for Elurín.”

Maglor wasn’t sure it had had the effect Celegorm had wanted, if that was so. Or maybe it was only that Elurín had been half out of his mind with fear for his brother then, and he would appreciate it now. He glanced at Daeron, but found him looking away toward the garden, watching a few sparrows hopping around in the dirt looking for seeds. 

Someone came looking for Elrond before long, and he rose with a sigh. “I hope you’ll all try to get some more rest. If you need anything, only send for me—someone will be able to find me, wherever I am. I’ll look in on Eluréd and Lossenol in a little while.”

“Thank you, Elrond,” Daeron said quietly.

“You need not thank me either, Daeron. We’re all family, in a strange and sort of roundabout way.” Elrond smiled at all of them, and rested his hand on Maglor’s shoulder for a moment before leaving them. 

When he was gone Celebrimbor said, “Told you he’d be happy to see you.” Maglor made a face at him, and was relieved to see him smile, even if it was a tired sort of expression and didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“How are you feeling, Celebrimbor?” Daeron asked. 

“Better, I think. It’s going to take time. I know that. I just—he knows that I’m here, that I’m still alive. That puts everyone here in even more danger, and—I still don’t know what he is capable of.”

“And he does not yet know what we are capable of,” said Daeron after a moment. “Maglor and Elurín joined their voices together by the river, to great effect, but we have never done such a thing.” He looked at Maglor. “I think if we tried it—after we are rested, when we are at our full strength—we could do almost anything.”

In spite of everything, Maglor felt a thrill shoot up his spine. “I still need to rest my voice a little more, between that and what I was doing before,” he said, “but I too would like to find out what we can do. The element of surprise is lost, maybe, but we are not yet powerless.”

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Daeron returned to Eluréd’s room, where he and Elurín were huddled together on the bed. Eluréd had been feverish all night, and though it had broken with the morning it seemed to have come back. He was pale and shivering, the very picture of misery. “How is Celebrimbor?” Elurín asked.

“He’s all right, I think—Elrond has seen him, and he’s eaten lunch. He and Maglor are outside.” Daeron sat on Eluréd’s other side. “How are you, songbird?”

“Tired,” Eluréd sighed. He shifted so he could lean against Daeron instead of Elurín. His skin was warm to the touch, but not as bad as it had been. “Everything still hurts.” He had to speak carefully, with bandages over the right side of his face, obscuring a few long cuts, one of which had reached his upper lip and had had to be stitched carefully. His hair had been trimmed so it was at least even, but it was shorter than it had been in all the time Daeron had known him. Though he knew it would grow back, and it was only hair, Daeron hated to see it. “At least now we’re easy to tell apart,” Eluréd said after a moment.

“That’s not funny,” Elurín snapped. 

“Wasn’t funny when you said it, either.”

“All right, that’s enough,” said Daeron. He kissed the top of Eluréd’s head. He’d spent an hour that morning crying until he had no tears left, rather than trying to sleep, and still his eyes stung, relief mingling with lingering fear. They were all together again, all safe, if not unscathed, but he didn’t know what exactly Eluréd had endured, and couldn’t guess how long he would need to heal—or how long they had. “Do you need me to do anything, Eluréd?”

“No. When can I see Atya?”

“He’s asleep still, and neither of you should be getting out of bed. It may take some days, but I promise, as soon as it’s possible, you can see him. But—I suppose I should warn you that Celeborn might make it difficult.”

“What has he done?” Elurín asked. 

“He and I had words earlier—it’s all right,” Daeron said when Elurín started scowling, and Eluréd turned to hide his face in his shoulder. “I expected nothing less. I can handle it. He’s only worried for you—”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” said Eluréd. “Or if you did, you did not wrong him.”

“You know why he won’t see it that way. But I’ll deal with Celeborn. You just rest.”

Eluréd didn’t lift his head. “I’m glad you’re here, Ada,” he whispered.

He should have been there before—when Eluréd had been taken. In the chaos it had been all Daeron could do to call up the mists to try to hide their passage from the orcs, and to stay in the saddle with Celegorm. But he should have seen that Eluréd was in trouble—should have heard him calling out for help. Daeron held him a little closer and kissed him again. “I’m so sorry, Eluréd,” he whispered.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Eluréd said. “I knew—I knew what would happen, when I turned back. And what would happen if I didn’t. I just—I thought I could escape, before they broke…”

They’d done more than break his legs. They’d beaten him even worse than the orcs had beaten Daeron, long ago, and then Sauron had tormented him in other ways that Eluréd would not yet speak of. And Daeron didn’t know how to help him. “Have you eaten?” he asked. 

“He had a little broth, but that’s all,” said Elurín when Eluréd didn’t answer.

“I can’t,” Eluréd whispered.

“Try to drink a little more, and some water,” said Daeron, “and then I’ll sing you to sleep and you can try again when you wake.”

“No, I—I don’t want to sleep, I want—”

“No dreams, birdie, I promise, and you will not wake alone.” Daeron stroked his hair and, after he and Elurín managed to get him to drink a little more broth, he sang until Eluréd fell asleep, and then he and Elurín carefully tucked him back under the blankets. “You should eat something too, and maybe step outside for a while—feel the sun on your face,” Daeron told him. “I’ll stay with Eluréd.” Elurín nodded, but wouldn’t look at him. “Elurín?”

“I shouldn’t ever have left him,” Elurín whispered. “I should have…”

“We all did the best we could with the knowledge we had,” Daeron said. “And you were wounded yourself, Elurín. There was nothing else you could have done.”

“I know.” Elurín straightened. “Can I—I will eat something, and then I want to sit with Lossë for a while. Can I?”

“Of course—why couldn’t you?”

“I don’t know. I just—I was so awful and he only ever…”

“I think,” Daeron said, “he would be very, very happy to wake up again and find you there, or to learn that you had been. Don’t worry about Eluréd. He won’t wake until the evening.”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to stop worrying about him ever again.”

Daeron sat with Eluréd for a while longer, mostly to reassure himself. He kept thinking about the flet in Ossiriand, about the first time he’d laid eyes on Eluréd and Elurín, and how afraid he had been. In the beginning he’d wanted to protect them because they were Lúthien’s grandchildren, but that had changed very quickly—by the time spring had come he’d loved them for themselves, enough that he’d dreaded having to part ways with them even when he had still thought it would be the only way to really keep them safe. 

How far they had all come since then. He held Eluréd’s hand, rubbing the back of it with his thumb as he hummed quiet lullabies and let his thoughts drift. He was so lost in them that he did not hear the knock on the door, and jumped when it opened. Celeborn slipped into the room. “How is he?” he asked. 

“In a great deal of pain, but Elrond and the healers are optimistic. He was awake for most of the morning.” Daeron paused, not really wanting to start another fight, but he also did not want to shy away from it either. “He was asking for Lossenol.”

Celeborn’s expression remained mostly blank. “You mean Celegorm.”

“Shall I start calling Galadriel Artanis, then?” Daeron asked. Celeborn’s look turned scathing. “I will not apologize—not for doing what I had to, to keep them all safe. But you should know that Lossenol has never lied about who he was—”

“Even when I asked if he had ever been to Doriath? I remember that conversation, even if you do not.”

“He did not remember,” said Daeron. “He remembered nothing of his past. I had guessed at the truth, but he never did, not until everything changed very suddenly last fall.”

“And this is the real reason you tried to avoid all of us back then, isn’t it? Why you disappeared into the east? You chose a kinslayer—the worst of all of them—over your own people?”

“I chose my friend,” Daeron said. “I chose someone who loved me, and who loved Eluréd and Elurín, and who never asked more of me than I could give. He is not only what the Oath made of him, no more than Maglor is. I understand why you hate him—I do—but I will ask you to try to set it aside at least for now, for Eluréd and Elurín’s sake.”

“And what will I do for Lúthien’s sake, for my wife’s sake—for the sake of her brother, who your friend betrayed and sent to his death? You were once friends with Finrod Felagund too, were you not?”

“I was, and I have mourned him too, as I mourned Lúthien, and Elu Thingol, and everyone else. But they are not here, and I will not be ruled by what we all fancy the dead would wish of us. And I will not continue this conversation now.” Daeron leaned over to kiss Eluréd’s forehead before he rose. Eluréd did not need them debating such things over his head. As for Finrod—Daeron suspected that there was nothing Celeborn or Galadriel could say that Celegorm had not already thought of himself—and worse. There had been no mistaking the ragged, awful grief in his voice those few times Nargothrond had been spoken of over the winter. “All I ask, my lord, is that you do not try to come between the twins and Lossë. Let them make their own choices.”

“Have they known all along?” Celeborn asked as he followed Daeron out of the room.

“No. They have had nearly a year now to come to terms with it, since the truth came out.”

“But how—”

“That is all I will say. What has passed between the four of us is our business.”

“Daeron—”

“Have you confronted Elrond like this about his love for Maglor?”

“That is different—”

“Is it?”

“Elrond has never forgotten where he came—”

Elurín stepped suddenly between them; Daeron didn’t know where he had come from, or how much he had heard. “Don’t you dare accuse us of forgetting where we came from!” he snapped. “How dare you suggest—”

“Birdie…” Daeron reached for him, but Elurín ignored him. 

“That’s not what I—” Celeborn began.

“Where were Dior and Nimloth when we were separated from our sister and lost in the forest? I have heard that Maedhros himself searched for us after the fighting was over. Did you?”

Celeborn’s face had gone white. “Elurín—”

“Where were any of you when we were sick, or hurt, or frightened? You will not dictate who Eluréd and I choose to call our family. Not when it was Celegorm who bandaged our hurts and dried our tears—and it was Dior who refused to hand over the Silmaril that Thingol should never have demanded in the first place. You don’t have to like it, but you had better get used to it.” With that, he disappeared into Eluréd’s room. He did not slam the door, but it clicked shut with definite finality. 

For a few moments Daeron and Celeborn stood in silence. Then Daeron said, “Elurín takes after Thingol in many ways, if you hadn’t noticed. You will not change his mind—nor Eluréd’s, though he is often quieter.”

“So I see.” Celeborn’s face had returned to blank unreadability. 

“Eluréd and Elurín were fourteen when they began to address Lossë and me as their fathers,” Daeron said after a moment. “We both tried to discourage it—not because we didn’t both love them as though they were our own sons, but because neither of us wanted them to forget Dior or Nimloth. They told us then that they did not think of it that way—that we were their parents as well as Dior and Nimloth, rather than instead of them. In the same way they do look to you as their uncle, and they are grateful that you see them first as your nephews rather than as Thingol’s heirs, but you will only hurt them and yourself if you try to make them choose.”

“You cannot ask me to forget that they were raised by Dior’s murderer, Daeron.”

“I am asking you not to treat them as though they do not understand. They do understand, and they have both been struggling to come to terms with it—and that is my fault. I am not trying to pretend otherwise. But has not Celegorm just proven that he would die for both of them? He loves them.”

“The Celegorm that stormed Menegroth was not capable of such a thing,” Celeborn said after a moment. “Either you have been terribly deceived, or some sort of miracle took place there.”

“What would be gained by such a deception?”

“What was gained by sending Finrod to his death? There is blood on his hands that will never wash away, Daeron.”

“What did you go to Ost-in-Edhil with Celebrimbor for, if you do not believe in second chances?” Daeron asked. “The Silmarils are beyond anyone’s reach. The Oath is over. You have no idea what lies in Celegorm’s heart—and if you do not tread carefully you will never again know what is in your nephews’, either.”

Celeborn did not answer. His jaw worked, his hands balled into fists, and then he turned and left without another word. 

Daeron swallowed a sigh, and then went to Celegorm’s room. He found it empty but for Huan, who lay mostly hidden under the bed. Daeron knelt to pet him, wondering again at how he had come to be there. “I don’t suppose you’ll speak to us, as you once spoke to Lúthien?” he asked. Huan’s ear twitched. “I didn’t think so.”

As he moved to the chair by the bed, Celegorm stirred. When he opened his eyes, Daeron reached for his hand. “Daeron…?” Celegorm frowned at him. “You’re…”

“I’m furious with you,” Daeron informed him. “I’m going to take the staff you made me and break your skull with it, as soon as you can get out of this bed, for that oath you swore and that nonsense at the ford.” 

Celegorm shifted a little against the pillows, winced, and when he looked back at Daeron he seemed a little more alert. “You—you’re s’posed to be in—”

“We were not going to just go sit in Lórinand with Galadriel, without knowing what was happening or being able to do anything about it.” Daeron reached for the pitcher on the table by his chair, and poured a cup of water. “Here.” He helped Celegorm take a few sips. “Do you want me to call for a healer?”

“N-no, I—Eluréd—”

“He’s sleeping in the next room. Elurín is with him. The rest of us are unhurt—and so far only Elrond and Celeborn know who you really are. Celeborn isn’t happy, but Elurín just had a go at him.”

Celegorm stared at him for a moment. “…Elurín? Are you…?”

“Oh, Lossë.” Daeron set the cup aside. “He loves you. You know he does. He was just here himself, sitting with you before I came to take my turn.”

“But…” Celegorm’s head sank back against the pillows as he sighed, eyes falling shut. 

“What hurts?” Daeron asked.

“Everything.”

“As bad as Ossiriand, do you think?”

“Dunno. No—still re-remember.” Celegorm’s left arm and shoulder were heavily bandaged, splinted and set in a sling. With his right—knuckles bruised and scabbed, scrapes along his arm and the back of his hand—he reached again for Daeron. “Should’ve gone to Lórinand,” he murmured without opening his eyes. “Glad you didn’t. Thought—thought I’d n-never—” His voice broke, and he started shaking, as though the reality of everything that had happened was just then hitting him. “Daeron—”

“I’m here.” Daeron moved to the bed and carefully wrapped his arms around Celegorm, who turned toward him with a bitten off sob. “I’m here, Lossë. It’s all right.” Celegorm just grasped at his arm with his good hand and wept. Daeron stroked his hair and hummed a song to try to ease some of the pain he was in. 

The tears slowed after a while, but Daeron didn’t let go, and Celegorm didn’t try to pull away. Once his breathing had steadied he turned his head a little and whispered, “Thought I’d never see you again.”

“You shouldn’t have turned back,” Daeron said.

“Had to.”

“No, you could’ve reached the river with Maglor and Eluréd. I was there—I saw it all happen.”

Celegorm breathed a shaky sigh. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see—I’m sorry.”

“If I ask you never to do such a thing again…”

“I can’t m-make that—promise.”

Daeron sighed. “I didn’t think so.” He waited a few more minutes, until Celegorm had stopped shaking, and then said, “There is someone else here. He’s been waiting all day for you to wake, to greet you properly.”

“…What?” Celegorm lifted his head. “Who?” Huan lumbered to his feet, and Celegorm’s breath caught, eyes going wide. “But—but that—he can’t—Huan?” Huan shoved his face into Celegorm’s sniffing his hair and then licking away the tears on his face. Celegorm buried his fingers in Huan’s thick fur, like he couldn’t believe what was happening. “But you—you died, you—you great oaf, how—” His voice broke again.

“No one knows how, or why,” said Daeron. “But he appeared at the last moment by the Bruinen—so Sauron can now claim the distinction of having been bested by Huan not once but twice.” Celegorm made a small noise that might have been a laugh, if he weren’t also crying again. Huan whined and rested his head on Celegorm’s chest; if the bed were bigger, Daeron suspected he would have joined them on it. Huan was also very careful, as though he knew exactly how badly Celegorm had been hurt, and knew exactly how much affection he could withstand. 

Before long, Celegorm fell asleep again, though he fought to stay awake. Daeron pulled the blankets up over him, but remained on the bed, exhausted and unwilling to leave his side. Huan nosed at him, and he wearily scratched his ears for a few minutes. Celegorm was very rarely given to tears, especially like this, but it had been a relief to see them—to know that he could release some of whatever storm had been brewing inside him for months. 

He didn’t notice that he was also falling asleep until he woke sometime later when Huan lifted his head from his legs. Elrond had come into the room. “Sorry to wake you,” he said as Daeron sat up. “Should I come back later?”

“No. It’s fine.” Daeron yawned and rubbed his face as Elrond bent over Celegorm. It was growing dark outside. “Any news?”

“The Enemy has retreated from the Bruinen. Some orcs remain near the ford, I think to keep watch, but we believe he feels he has us trapped, and can turn his attention to Lindon for now.” 

“Does he? Have us trapped?”

“Maybe. The High Pass isn’t too far, but we have many here who cannot make that journey, and there have been signs of trolls coming down out of the mountains—it’s too risky.”

“Might help come from the Greenwood, or Lórinand?”

“Lórinand and Moria did help us—they attacked from the rear as we fled after Ost-in-Edhil was sacked. Without them we would not have escaped even this far. Perhaps Durin will open the doors of Moria again before this is over, but for now I think he is wise to keep them shut. I do not think any armies will come over the High Pass—the road is too narrow, and they will not risk finding an army waiting for them on this side before they can regroup. There are also the trolls, as I said—and the stone giants, who will probably not take any sides but who are dangerous in their own way.”

“So we must hope that Gil-galad is able to drive him back.”

“As I told Maglor and Celebrimbor, we asked Númenor for help,” Elrond said. He carefully unwrapped the bandages around Celegorm’s chest, revealing an ugly gash across his ribs to join the other scars there. It crossed directly over his heart, and Daeron had been horrified before to see how deep it was, considering Sauron had also sliced through chain mail to reach the skin. He did not feel much better seeing it now. It did not seem to be inflamed, though it was still pink and tender, and Celegorm twitched in his sleep, making a quiet pained noise when Elrond touched it. The wound to his shoulder looked similar. “Tar-Telperiën had not answered by the time I left Lindon. But Huan had to reach these shores somehow, so I am hopeful.”

“Unless he just swam back across the Sea,” said Daeron. Huan shoved his head onto his lap. Elrond smiled, briefly and absently, and Daeron fell silent to let him work. When he was done he changed the bandages, singing a quiet but powerful song of healing. “Will he be able to use his left arm?”

“In time, I think. He took a great risk, engaging with Sauron himself, alone.”

Was it taking a risk if one did not expect to get out of the battle alive? Daeron did not want to think about that. “If Númenor comes—do you think we stand a chance?”

“Yes,” said Elrond simply. He offered no explanation, but he had that look in his eyes that Eluréd sometimes got, and that was good enough for Daeron. He could trust in the hope of others, even if he was not very good at holding onto it for himself. “I’ll have someone bring dinner for you—and something very simple for Lossenol, when he wakes. I can also find a room for you—I think you slept for a time in Maglor’s earlier, but if you wish for your own space we are not so cramped now that you can’t have it.”

“I would rather stay here,” Daeron said. “I suspect Maglor and I will be taking shifts, anyway.”

“Very well. He’s with Celebrimbor now, but I expect one or both of them to come to check in soon. I have also already seen Eluréd this evening. He ate and is asleep again. Elurín is still with him.”

“Thank you,” Daeron said. “And I’m—”

“Please do not apologize. None of you are a burden.” Elrond reached for Daeron’s hands, and Daeron felt a jolt of warmth pass through them into him. The lamplight seemed suddenly a little brighter, the colors of the blankets a little more vivid. “I would much rather have you all here, even wounded and in need of help, rather than be left to wonder where you are, and fear that you have been caught up in this war beyond my reach.”

Elrond left, and Daeron sank back down onto the bed to curl up against Celegorm’s side. He pressed his face against his shoulder and wept, because the hour he’d given himself to fall apart that morning was apparently not enough. Though he tried to stay quiet, after a little while Celegorm woke, and his hand came up to rest on Daeron’s hair. “Daeron…?”

“Sorry,” Daeron choked out.

“S’all right.” Celegorm’s words slurred together a little—another reminder of the ways Daeron had failed to help him when he most needed it. “M’here.”

“I know.” Daeron covered Celegorm’s hand with his and didn’t lift his head. “I was so frightened, Lossë.”

“Me too,” Celegorm whispered.

A knock heralded the arrival of dinner—brought by Maglor, with Celebrimbor just behind him. Daeron sat up and wiped his eyes, unable to find the energy to be embarrassed. For their part, neither Maglor nor Celebrimbor looked surprised. Celebrimbor went to sit on the other side of the bed, and Maglor set the tray down before leaning over to embrace Daeron, which he hadn’t expected. 

No one spoke of the tears, and Maglor instead put on a brisk, teasing tone in order to get Celegorm to eat something. Celegorm grumbled, but only half-heartedly. Between Celebrimbor and Daeron they got him to sit up a little, propped up by pillows and by Daeron. He leaned heavily against Daeron’s side, and smiled a little when Huan went around to greet Celebrimbor, who wrapped his arms around Huan’s neck and buried his face in his fur for a few moments. Maglor and Celebrimbor filled the silence as they all ate, mostly talking of the valley, which was beautiful, and making a game of coming up with ever more implausible reasons for Huan’s return to Middle-earth, and even more absurd ways he could have gotten there. It was nice, though it would have been better with Eluréd and Elurín there too. 

Soon, though, Daeron thought as his eyelids grew heavy, even as Maglor started telling a funny and clearly well-loved story of something Huan and Celegorm had done in their youth far away in Valinor. He felt someone draw a blanket up over his shoulders, and felt Celegorm shift a little to hold onto his hand, and then he gave in and let sleep take him.

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