The Day Transcending Night by StarSpray  

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Eighteen

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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.”