The Day Transcending Night by StarSpray  

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Seven

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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.