The Day Transcending Night by StarSpray  

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Two

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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.”