The Day Transcending Night by StarSpray  

---

Three

---

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!”