starspray | Keep You Like an Oath - Chapter 3

Fandom: Tolkien
Rating: M
Characters: Daeron, Maglor, Elrond, Celebrian, Erestor, Glorfindel
Warnings: Violence, Torture, Aftermath of Torture, whump
Summary: Maglor finds Daeron after he escapes from the Witch-king's clutches, wounded by a morgul blade and fading; they must reach Rivendell, as Arthedain and Cardolan burn.

First Chapter / Previous Chapter / Last Chapter

Wearing our vintage misery
No, I think it looked a little better on me
I’m gonna change you like a remix
Then I’ll raise you like a phoenix
- “The Phoenix” by Fall Out Boy

- -

Daeron woke with a start. He lay on soft pillows under even softer blankets—in a bed, a real bed. When had he last slept in a bed? He could not remember. Above him were carven beams crossing the ceiling, all soft warm browns. It was very bright; the sunshine spilled through the open window, golden and warm, along with a breeze that carried the sound of flowing water and the scent of niphredil and late-blooming roses. It was only with difficulty that he could even turn his head. The bed was just beside the window, and he had a view of a river flowing cheerfully through a valley, still summer-green. The Misty Mountains towered overhead, but they seemed sheltering rather than imposing.

For a while Daeron watched the river, thinking of nothing at all. He felt too weak for it, his mind sluggish and slow. The name of this valley was known to him, he was sure, but he could not bring it to mind. How he had come there—his mind shuddered away from that knowledge, too, and he couldn’t think of any clear memory from the last…months? Years? How long had it been since he had sat beside the Anduin in the east and realized that he was dying?

After a little while he tried to sit up, wanting to lean out of the window, to feel the sun on his face, but his arms shook horribly and he couldn’t manage it. As he gave up the door opened, and he turned his head to see a ghost entering the room—Lúthien with her long dark hair and sweet smile. When she turned that smile on him he felt suddenly like he couldn’t breathe. A pathetic noise escaped as his hands slipped over the blankets, arms at last giving out entirely.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Lúthien’s smile was replaced with a look of concern as she crossed the room, bending over him to straighten the pillows and the blankets. “I did not expect to find you awake.” She did not sound like Lúthien. The accent was wrong, and her voice was softer, somehow gentler. The songs all sang of Lúthien dancing under starlight, of her beauty and her grace, and they sang of the great power she wielded in her song, but so few of them told how even when she wasn’t singing towers down or enemies to submission she blazed, brighter than any star, brighter than the Sun. This ghost of her did not shine so brightly, but shimmered like the reflection of starlight at gloaming upon clear waters.

She could not be Lúthien, for Lúthien was gone, lost to them all so long ago. Yet who else could she be, but Lúthien somehow returned, beyond any expectation or any hope…? “Lúthien,” he breathed, finding that he was shaking all over. “Lúthien, how—”

“Shh,” she said, drawing the blankets up over him. “I am sorry, truly. I knew it would shock you to see me, but we did not expect you to wake so soon. I am not Lúthien, but her granddaughter. Arwen is my name. Some call me Undómiel.” She brushed a few strands of hair from his face with gentle fingers, but withdrew when he flinched away. “My father is Elrond Halfelven. You are in Rivendell, Daeron. You are safe.” She turned away to take up a kettle of steaming water from a nearby brazier, and poured it into a basin by the bed. Daeron recognized the leaves she gently bruised and cast into it; the fresh, clean smell of the steam filled the room and eased the painful pounding of his heart. It smelled different, though, than when Maglor had used the leaves, in a way Daeron couldn’t quite identify.

He blinked. Maglor? When had he…when had…

Bits of memory passed through his mind, and something in his chest hurt as fear clawed its way back up his throat. He didn’t know if it was memory, or just bits of dream, bits of nightmare. Floating down the river on the half-broken raft, waking to find Maglor bending over him. Days and nights of stumbling through heather and bracken, the smell of smoke thick in the air. Maglor trying to pick fights for no reason and then in the next minute gently admonishing Daeron to eat, or singing soft songs that chased away, for a little while, the worst of the darkness that had been creeping over, slowly strangling the life out of him. “Maglor,” he whispered. “Where is—where is Maglor?”

Arwen did not answer his question. “Rest,” she said instead. “My father will come see you as soon as he can, but there are many who need tending, and he is weary. In the meantime, someone will come with food and perhaps some tea.” Before he could say anything else, she was gone, the door clicking shut quietly behind her.

Daeron closed his eyes and turned his head away from the door, though he did not want to look out of the window either. If he had not merely imagined Maglor, his mind somehow conjuring the strangest source of comfort amid his torment, then Maglor was not in Rivendell. If he was, she would have said so. If he had been real, either he was dead or he had chosen not to enter the valley. Regardless, Daeron had lost him. Again.

After a little while he fell asleep. The sound of the river was soothing, and the blankets were warm—he was warm as he had not been in so long. His dreams, though, were cold and dark, and he woke gasping and clutching at his chest. The scar there was thin and pale, as it had been for weeks now, but it was now only cool to the touch, rather than freezing—and even that might have just been Daeron’s imagination.

As he lay staring at the ceiling in the fading evening light, a soft knock came at the door a moment before it opened. It was not Arwen this time, but another woman, followed by two more. One carried a tray and the other a bundle of cloth. The latter two deposited their burdens and left. The first woman remained. She was tall and silver-haired, with a heart-shaped face and freckles across her cheeks and nose under bright blue eyes. She was not as shockingly familiar as Arwen, but still Daeron felt that he should know her—yet he did not.

“Good evening, Daeron,” she said, and with a gentle efficiency she helped him to sit up, supported by the pillows, ignoring the way he trembled under her touch, and poured a cup of tea from the tray her companion had brought, sweetening it with a small spoonful of honey. “You may still be feeling a chill. I’m afraid it will be some time yet before the Black Breath is wholly banished from you. Few we have seen here have been so badly afflicted.”

Daeron took the cup carefully in both hands. The heat was welcome, and he could not remember when he had last had real tea. Somehow it made him think of gorse flowers. Did one make tea out of those? Had he ever tried it? When he tried to think more of it his head started to ache; his thoughts were all jumbled and confused. “Do…I know you?” he managed to ask after he took a sip of the tea, which soothed his aching throat.

“No,” said the woman with a smile, “but you knew my parents once upon a time—Celeborn and Galadriel. I am Celebrían.” Daeron stared at her. “Elrond is my husband; he will come soon to see you, but we have all been very busy. I know that you have seen our daughter already, and she is very distressed to have given you such a shock, so I thought I should warn you that Elrond, too, looks very like Lúthien.”

“I…thank you?” Daeron should have known what to say to all of that. Once, he would have. Once he had known the name of Elrond, he was sure, had known whose son he was and maybe he had even known that he had wed the daughter of Celeborn and Galadriel, but it all sounded now brand new to his ears, and he didn’t know what to say, or what to feel.

“Do not trouble yourself, and just try to rest,” Celebrían said. “We were all very afraid for you for a time, but my husband is the greatest healer in these lands, and he was not going to allow Angmar to take you. It would have gone faster and easier if we knew anything of the weapon that was used against you, but alas—we know so little of anything come down from Carn Dûm. I fear by the time this is all over we will know far more than we would wish.”

Celebrían had brought broth as well as tea, and insisted he drink all of it. It wasn’t very much, but it was as hot as the tea and tasted better than anything since…

Strawberries? He had had wild strawberries recently. He felt sure of it, but the memory vanished as soon as he tried to reach for it, and all he was left with was an impression of sweetness, and of a warm hand grasping his own.

As Celebrían took the empty bowl the door opened again, and even forewarned Daeron flinched back upon seeing who entered. It was not Arwen, and so could only be Elrond, dark-haired and with Lúthien’s soft grey eyes. Like Arwen, the resemblance was not complete. He was tall, as Lúthien had been, but broader of shoulder, though the light in his eyes was the same—and he had dark circles under them. Though he smiled, he moved as though carrying a heavy weight, as though he was deeply weary. Celebrían rose from her seat by the bed and busied herself with the bundle of cloth—clothes, Daeron saw, as she shook out shirts and robes.

Elrond took her place, introducing himself in a voice that made Daeron want to flee. Yet there was no reason for it, no reason to fear him—he had been the one to save Daeron’s life, if what Celebrían had said was true. There was nothing frightening about the voice itself—it was a kind and pleasant voice, rough around the edges with weariness, that was all. “May I?” Elrond asked, holding out his hand. Daeron put his into it, but yanked it back a second later, fear slicing through him like a knife. He stared at Elrond, who did not look surprised. “It’s all right,” he said, and did not try to reach out again. “I thought that might happen. I had to fight very hard for you, and I’m afraid you suffered a great deal for it. I’m sorry.”

The feeling of being pulled between two powers returned to Daeron, and he shivered. It had been bright and burning heat on one side and piercing cold on the other, and it seemed the heat had won. Elrond’s was the power that was like Melian’s, but also somehow very different.

“Do you remember anything before you came here?” Elrond asked him.

“I…I don’t know.” His head ached again, and he felt suddenly so tired. “I don’t…Lúth…Elrond—her son?”

Elrond shook his head, smiling a little. “No. Dior was her son. I am Elwing’s son, Dior’s daughter.” He rose to his feet. “You are safe here, as safe as you once were behind Doriath’s Girdle. You need not think of or worry about anything now except eating and sleeping and regaining your strength.”

“Wait. Please.” Daeron could feel sleep coming to claim him, but he needed to know for sure. “Maglor. He was…where is he?”

Something in Elrond’s calm expression flickered. “He is not here. I do not know where he is.”

“But he was—he was with me, was he not…?”

“He was,” Elrond said, and Daeron’s eyes burned with sudden tears, relief rising up to choke him—he had not just dreamed it. “Do you not remember?” Daeron could only shake his head. “You’ve been sorely tried, Daeron, and need rest. We can speak of Maglor more when you are stronger.”

There wasn’t anything to speak of, Daeron thought, if Maglor had not come to Rivendell. Elrond left the room, and Celebrían finished sorting through the clothes and hanging them in a wardrobe across the room. Daeron turned his gaze back out of the window, where the shadows were growing and the stars were coming out. Someone out of sight began a song of praise to Elbereth and her stars. It was a song once sung in Doriath—a song he had sung in Doriath—and the sound of it made the tears stinging his eyes blur his vision, threatening to fall.

“Daeron?” Celebrían came back to the bed with something in her hand. “We found this in the pocket of your cloak.” She held it out, and Daeron took it without thinking. It was a flute, carved of wood, smooth under his fingers.

“This isn’t mine,” he said. He remembered so little, but he knew what his own work looked like. This was not it.

“Keep it anyway,” Celebrían said, smiling at him, and after making sure he wanted for nothing else she too left the room.

Daeron turned the flute over in his shaking hands, and stopped when his fingers rubbed over a mark near the end of it. A small eight-pointed star had been carved into the wood, and under it a stylized M. Of course. It had not been his own cloak that he wore when he’d been brought here, had it? It had been Maglor’s cloak, and so this was Maglor’s flute. A horrible, yawning sense of loss opened up in his chest, and Daeron did not know why, or what to do with it other than to curl up under the blankets and cry until he had no tears left, and sleep finally claimed him.

He woke from shadowy dreams to bright morning sunlight, and the flute still clutched in his hand. For a moment he couldn’t remember why he had it, or where he was. Those memories returned swiftly as full wakefulness came, but everything from before he’d first woken in this bed in this strange and bright valley remained elusive. Daeron did not move, not even when he heard the door open behind him and someone moving quietly around the room. He lay facing the window, which was framed by vines of climbing ivy. He watched the leaves quiver in the breeze without really seeing them. His head still ached dully, but he felt as though that had been true for so long it was hardly worth noticing anymore. Behind him the door opened and closed again, and the room fell silent and still.

The thought came into his mind that he had wanted to go west. That he had been seeking the Havens—that he needed to seek them, lest…what? Daeron closed his eyes and rubbed his eyes before rolling onto his back. His body felt almost foreign, joints stiff, weakened muscles aching. He took as deep a breath as he could and found at least that he could breathe. The wound on his chest had felt like a fist around his lungs, icy and squeezing ever harder, harder…

Keep going, he heard Maglor’s voice whisper. Just breathe.

Memory or imagining? He didn’t know, but he wanted so badly it to be memory. Daeron closed his eyes again and breathed, in and out, slowly, deeply.

Lady Celebrían returned with more tea, and breakfast—small portions of nuts and fruits and fresh bread slathered with butter and honey. Daeron could eat very little of it, and was afraid at first that it would tease like nothing but ashes, but the berries and honey were sweet, and the butter rich, the bread soft enough to melt on his tongue. It made him want to weep again, but he somehow managed not to at least while Celebrían was there. She spoke to him of light and inconsequential things, but as she prepared to clear away the breakfast tray a horn sounded in the valley. The suddenness of it was jarring, and made Daeron start violently, heart lurching in his chest.

“More soldiers are arriving—fleeing Cardolan. With the armies of Angmar in between us, those from Arthedain must fly west to Lindon.” Celebrían sighed as she finished returning the dishes to the tray. “I fear we may be besieged before long—but worry not. It will not be the first time, and we are far better prepared now. No enemy has ever found the path into this valley, and we can outlast any army, even one led by the Lord of the Nazgûl.”

Daeron knew he was meant to be reassured, but there mere mention of the Witch-king, even by another title, had that ice-cold fist squeezing his lungs again, until he couldn’t breathe at all, until he was gasping and choking on nothing. Celebrían sat on the edge of the bed, murmuring quiet encouragements, and he felt her power wash over him, gentle as spring rain—nothing at all like he would have expected from a daughter of Galadriel, who had, like Lúthien, always seemed to blaze so brightly, as though she carried the light of the Trees in her whole self and not only her eyes. After a few minutes Celebrían rose and fetched athelas, casting a few leaves into a basin of steaming water—there was always heated water, it seemed, for such a purpose. It helped immediately, and Daeron was soon able to take deeper breaths, gasping as his lungs filled. He drew his knees up to rest his head on them, feeling as though he’d done this before, except someone else had been there, sitting at his back, with rough and calloused fingers pressed against the pulse in his wrist.

Celebrían’s much smaller and softer hand rested on his back for a moment. “I am sorry, Daeron,” she said softly. “I will not speak of him again.” He shuddered. “Rest, now. Someone will come check on you from time to time, but the more you can sleep the better.” She still held power in her voice, and almost before he even realized what she was doing, Daeron fell back against the pillows and into sleep.

So the days passed, bleeding into weeks. He woke, he ate a little, he slept again. It was Celebrían who cared for him more often than not. Sometimes others came. Elrond did not appear again, nor Arwen; Daeron knew why, and was pathetically grateful for it, to not have to look into an echo of Lúthien’s face. He did not try to track the time, drifting in and out of wakefulness. Sometimes horns sounded in the valley, heralding an arrival or a departure. In between there was often singing, sometimes laughter, always out of sight. He saw no one wandering the garden paths or walking by the river outside of his window.

Autumn crept over the valley slowly, summer lingering and clinging as Daeron thought it did not in the rest of the world. Elrond’s power was so like Melian’s. The very seasons seemed his to command. As his strength slowly increased, Daeron was soon able to sit up and lean out of the window, resting his head on his arms, enjoying the sun on his face. A handful of stubborn anemones bloomed underneath the window, and late-blooming roses climbed the walls to one side. Creeping willow lined the path that passed nearby before vanishing around an enormous lilac bush, long out of bloom. The air smelled fresh, with just a hint of crispness that heralded the colder weather to come. Daeron spent many hours like that, just watching the clouds overhead, and the mists hovering high above in the mountains that loomed over the valley, and listening to a nightingale that had taken up residence in some tree or bush nearby, just out of sight.

Sometimes it sang a few notes that were not a nightingale’s proper song. The first time it happened Daeron lifted his head as his heart began to pound. He knew that song. He had written it—or half of it. A memory came back to him suddenly, hazy, of a nightingale perched on Maglor’s scarred fingers singing the same song as the one hidden in Elrond’s garden, and Maglor speaking as though Daeron had sent it to him. He had no memory at all of that, though—no memory of teaching any bird any song not its own.

And yet here it was…and a nightingale, of all the birds it could have been. The song was one Daeron had not even attempted to play in…he did not know how long. He frowned at the ivy. It had been years—centuries. He used to play it, or sing it, often—in the beginning of his wanderings when he had been heartsick and angry and in the mood to punish himself. He’d played it under the dark boughs of the ancient woods of Eriador while evading the kind but strange attentions of Eldest, who bounded over the downs and through the trees with such wild and cheerful abandon.

He had played many other songs too, but somehow kept coming back to that one, the only song he and Maglor had written together. It had been at the Mereth Aderthad, one afternoon when they were tipsy on fine wine and good humor, having escaped for a little while the constant demands from everyone else to perform, to sing another song or challenge each other with tongue-twisters and complicated rhythms. In private they had issued each other very different challenges, and in between they’d decided to see what would happen if they worked together instead. The song itself wasn’t very special, just a blending of two very old melodies—one from Doriath and one from Tirion across the Sea—and simple lyrics of summertime pleasures, butterflies and sunshine and sweet-smelling flowers. Yet it felt like a secret, like something precious, even after the truth of Alqualondë had come out, after Daeron’s foolishness had spurred the events that tangled Doriath at last in the tendrils of Fëanor’s Oath and spelled its doom.

He’d lost his old flute long ago, dropped or broken and never replaced, as he had wandered aimlessly east of the Misty Mountains as the years began to wear away at him the way water wore down stones. Something—he could not remember what—had roused him lately, just enough to believe that he might find himself again if he could just make it to the Havens beyond the Ered Luin—that he might find it in his heart to take up music again, to find joy in the light of the sun on flowing water or in the sight of the stars on a clear moonless night.

Now he wished he had just stayed there, in the vales of the Anduin, and let himself fade away until Mandos called him west instead. No one would have known. No one would have mourned him. It would not have hurt.

Soon enough the nightingale no longer sang, departing from Imladris for warmer climes. The cold crept in, and Daeron found himself always shivering, even though he had more blankets than one person could possibly need, and Celebrían made sure all of his clothing was thick and warm. She also started to coax him more and more out of his room, showing him the ways of the house and introducing him to various members of the household and others who were staying there. It was crowded, filled with refugees and soldiers. It was impossible then to avoid news of the outside world. Angmar had been repelled, the new young king of Arthedain proving himself fierce on the battlefield as he avenged his father’s death at Amon Súl. Cardolan had rallied after the death of its prince, and for the moment Angmar was beaten back.

It was a relief to hear, but Daeron found himself feeling a sharp pang of grief for Cardolan and Prince Amlach, who had been kind to him and offered food and guidance when his men had found Daeron wandering near the Road, lost and weary. They had been readying themselves for war, but Daeron did not think anyone had been prepared for the great storm of violence that Angmar had brought sweeping down from the north. Certainly he hadn’t—he had thought he could escape it if he just kept moving west, and…well. Clearly he had been wrong.

The first evening Celebrían took him into the Hall of Fire, it was crowded and warm, and both Elrond and Arwen were there. They smiled at Daeron as Celebrían brought him to sit by them, near to the hearth. “We are all in need of cheering this evening,” Arwen told him. “There will be many songs sung and tales told, and you do not need to stay long if you do not wish to. I am very glad to see you up and about, though.” Now that he was properly awake and aware, it was easier to see Arwen as her own self and not merely a ghost of Lúthien, however great the resemblance. Daeron tried to put Lúthien out of his mind, but one of the first songs sung that evening was the tale of her meeting with Beren in the woods of Neldoreth. He stayed longer than he wished to, because to leave immediately would have just been to cause concern for his hosts, but he couldn’t make himself remain when someone began to play a song that he himself had written, so long ago, and he had to flee—back to the safety of his bedroom and the silence under the blankets, where no one could see him and wonder at how far the great singer Daeron of Doriath had fallen.

Some time around the first snowfall, he was taken to a large room that smelled of herbs and was filled with healers and their assistants, mixing medicines and rolling bandages. No patients were there, but Elrond stood at a table near the large windows, out of the way of everything else. With him was were two figures, one dark and slender, the other tall and golden-haired. The former seemed familiar, though Daeron couldn’t place him when he looked up. Elrond also looked up, and offered a small smile, though his expression was otherwise worried and grave. “Glorfindel has just brought this back from the battlefield,” he said, and unwrapped a small bundle on the table. It was the hilt of a knife, written over with strange and disturbing marks, and a terrible cold seemed to radiate from it. Daeron fell back, clasping a hand over his mouth to silence the cry that wanted to escape, as his chest burned with sudden pain.

“I thought so,” Glorfindel murmured as Elrond covered the hilt again. “The blade dissolved in the light of day, but it was very thin and almost seemed too fragile to be of any use. It was not made for slashing, however, but for stabbing.”

“That was—he tried,” Daeron said when he could master his tongue, though his voice shook. “I turned aside and he only…”

“You were very lucky,” Glorfindel told him. Daeron shook his head. He did not feel lucky. “If Maglor had brought you to the Last Bridge even an hour later, you would have been beyond all aid.”

“I do not want that thing in my house, Elrond,” Celebrían said, frowning down at the table.

“Nor do I,” Elrond said. “When I have learned all I can from it, we will melt it down. I fear Daeron is not the last we will see with such a wound.”

“Did Maglor not—not make it across the bridge?” Daeron asked. He had been trying to tell himself that it didn’t matter, that he didn’t want Maglor there anyway, trying to remind himself of Doriath and Sirion and everything else, but it hadn’t been working. Instead all he had were memories slowly stitching themselves back together in order, of their desperate flight through burning Cardolan, Maglor’s hand always in his.

It was Glorfindel who answered. “He insisted upon staying behind to hold it,” he said, “to give me time to get you across the Bruinen. I gave you into the care of Elladan and Elrohir at the ford before turning back with reinforcements, but by the time we arrived the battle was over, and Maglor was gone. We found no sign of him, though we had heard him only minutes before, and the Witch-king himself had fled before him.”

Elrond’s face was unreadable, but he seemed to be watching Daeron carefully. Daeron had no idea what he own face was doing. “I see,” he whispered. His first thought was that Maglor was dead—that he had fallen from the bridge somehow, taken by the swift waters of the Mitheithel. If not that, then…he had just fled, choosing not to follow after Daeron.

Yet he had sworn an oath, sworn to come to…

But he hadn’t, had he? He had sworn to see Daeron to the care of Elrond, not to come there himself. By handing Daeron over to Glorfindel and holding the bridge against Angmar, he’d fulfilled his oath, and so there was nothing left to tie them together. Except for how Daeron owed Maglor his life. Except for the way his absence hurt, even now, as sharply as it had upon his first waking in Rivendell to find that Maglor was not there with him.

Later, Elrond came to his room where he sat curled up in a chair by the fire, watching the flames dance and trying not to think about much of anything. “May I join you?” he asked. Daeron nodded without looking at him. Elrond sat in the chair facing him. “Do you wish to speak of him?”

“Who?” Daeron blinked and looked up.

“Maglor,” Elrond said.

Daeron dropped his gaze back to the flames. “I—no. He is—I know what he—I would not—”

“He raised me. Did you know that?”

“He…what?”

“I had nearly given up hope that he still lived, before you came here,” Elrond said quietly. “I do not know now if it is reassuring that he knows where to find me, or if it only pains me that he knows and will not come.”

“He did not speak of you, except to insist that he would bring me here,” Daeron said after a moment. “At least—I do not think he spoke of you. There is much I still cannot remember.”

“He spoke sometimes of you, when I was young,” Elrond said. “He taught my brother and me songs that you had written, and taught us your cirth alongside the tengwar he used.”

A thought came into Daeron’s mind. “There was a song…we wrote it together at the feast. It was simple and…it was just about summertime by the River Narog. Did he ever…?”

“No.” Elrond shook his head. “I don’t remember any such songs.”

“The nightingales in your garden sing snatches of it.”

“Is that what that song is? I wondered at it, but it is not something they learned here. I thought perhaps they had come from the Withywindle valley—Iarwain Ben-adar lives there and sometimes birds that pass through his woods emerge singing strange songs.” Elrond peered into Daeron’s face with Lúthien’s eyes and Melian’s power—but with a certain kindness that seemed all his own, softening what in them would have been a terribly piercing gaze. “When I know more of the knife that wounded you, I will be better able to help you recover,” he said finally. “Your body is healing but I can see you still suffer in spirit.”

“I had been fading away even before I ran afoul of Angmar,” Daeron said, unable to stop himself from pressing a hand over his chest.

“You are not beyond healing, Daeron.”

“If I am beyond the wish for it?”

“Are you?” Elrond asked gently.

Daeron looked away and did not answer.

Elrond sighed and rose. He rested a hand on Daeron’s shoulder, and though he flinched, there was of course nothing to fear, no pain or even any hint of power. “You are not the only one here that cares for Maglor,” Elrond said softly.

“I don’t care,” Daeron said. “I owe him a debt. That’s all.” The lie tasted sour on his tongue, and he knew Elrond heard it for what it was. He was Melian’s child and a great power in his own right—there was no hiding anything from him. Elrond said nothing, just squeezed his shoulder and departed. Daeron rubbed his chest and stared at the fire until he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer, and dark dreams took him.

He sees his chance and takes it when the guards’ backs are turned, desperation giving him just enough wherewithal to tear free of the ropes binding his wrists. He stumbles through the darkness of the forest’s eaves and falls when he hits thick reeds. Behind him a cry goes up, and the voices of the Nazgûl overtake all. He keeps going. The river is ahead, and he can see something floating in the water, tethered to a post on the bank.

Something hits him and he stumbles, rolls onto his back. The wraith looms over him, a knife in hand, dull-grey and failing to reflect the dim starlight. Daeron scrambles backward. He can’t breathe through his nose; he can barely see through half-swollen eyes. The world narrows to that knife and that hand and the knowledge that he must not let it touch him. If he can just reach the water, reach the river, the raft, he’ll be safe. He doesn’t know where that knowledge has come from, only that it feels true.

He rolls again just as the knife comes plunging down—it does not stab into him but the tip slices through his skin, leaving a line of pain so cold that it burns. He screams, the pain shocking him into a burst of strength he has not felt in years uncounted, and the wraith shrieks too, falling back as though the sound of his voice has struck it like a physical blow—

He woke to Celebrían moving around the room, humming softly. As he uncurled himself, slowly, stiff and sore, she turned to set a tray on the table by his chair. “Some scouts have just returned,” she told him as she uncovered a bowl of soup and a few slices of bread, still fresh from the oven with butter melting into the crumb. “Someone has been harrying Angmar’s armies, sabotaging their stores and cutting free their horses—all sorts of mischief. Do you know what has been left behind each time, drawn into the dirt or carved into a tree or a post?” She held out a small piece of paper, on which had been sketched an eight-pointed star.

“…Maglor?” Daeron said, feeling slow and stupid and still half-asleep.

“He lives,” Celebrían said, “and it seems we can now guess why he has not come seeking you here.”

Daeron hated how much he wanted to believe that. He said nothing, and Celebrían soon departed. Daeron ate because he knew he should, rather than because he felt hungry, tasting nothing, head full of Maglor’s voice urging him to take just one more bite, the sound of it like the voice of someone afraid but trying very hard to hide it. Daeron hadn’t noticed then, but he could hear it now as he recalled more of that strange and dark journey, all the way from the Baranduin to the Mitheithel. Could hear it in the way Maglor kept picking fights, teasing him, trying to make him angry—as though he thought that would help, somehow. Could hear it in the way he’d spoken with increasing desperation of how close the river was, of how near they were to safety even though there were miles yet between the bridge and the ford.

After he ate all he could stomach Daeron went to the window. When he pushed it open the wind blew snowflakes in to swirl around him, catching in his eyelashes. The air was cold enough to burn, sharp in his nose, heavy in his lungs. It was a different chill to the one made by the wraiths and their Black Breath and their cursed knives. It was clean, a wholesome cold that seemed to make the stars shine brighter, their light reflected off of the smooth snowdrifts that blanketed the valley, rounding all the sharp corners and hard edges, making it all seem soft and dreamlike.

He thought of Maglor out there, somewhere. His cloak had come to Rivendell with Daeron. What was he doing for warmth? For food? Daeron stared at the river, glittering as it flowed along, edged with ice, its song muted by the cold and the snowfall, until he realized how badly he was shivering, and regained enough sense to shut the window and go to bed.

Winter slipped by, and spring came in a torrent of rain and snow melt. Crocuses and snowdrops burst out of the lingering drifts, and daffodils soon followed, like bright patches of sunshine in the shade under the fir trees. Daeron ventured outside after the mud dried, pacing through the gardens and finding paths that wound throughout the valley, through the woods and meadows. Birds flocked back there, including nightingales, though not the one that sang his and Maglor’s song. Daeron found himself listening for it and tried to tell himself not to, tried to tell himself to forget.

A foolish thing think. He’d never had any luck in forgetting before. Why should that change just because his spirit was in tatters and the memories themselves were only slowly untangling themselves? He sat by the river and watched the niphredil blooming on the bank and thought of the Esgalduin and Lúthien dancing through the flowers in the starlight, her laughter echoing off the trees. He watched the sunlight play on a fountain and thought of the way it had sparkled on the waters of Ivrin as Maglor had taken his hand for the first time, pulling him away from the gathering to find a quiet and secluded glade where they would not be disturbed. Daeron closed his eyes and turned his thoughts very deliberately away from that memory, only to run into another that reared its head, full of impotent rage and terrible grief, when he’d stumbled upon Maglor and his soldiers while fleeing east. Maglor had done all the things Daeron had not wanted him to do so that he could keep hating him—but he’d insisted on sharing supplies that Daeron even then had been sure couldn’t be spared, and giving him a weapon, and then following him, all worry and concern, the sharp edges of the soldier and commander softening into the friend and fleeting lover from the feast the minute they were alone. Because he hadn’t yet known—he hadn’t known what Daeron had, did not yet fully understand the consequences of that foolish and cursed Oath.

And then he’d gone and sworn another—it hadn’t even been necessary, since clearly he’d been bent on getting Daeron to Rivendell one way or another anyway. Daeron hadn’t been serious when he’d asked if Maglor would swear it. He had…he didn’t know what he’d been thinking, really. Just that he was tired and in pain and unwilling to let anything Maglor did get his hopes up.

Movement out of the corner of his eye made him start, and he turned to see Erestor ambling down a nearby path, papers in hand and apparently lost in their contents. There was still something familiar about him, but Daeron didn’t know what it was—until Erestor lifted his head and smiled a greeting, and then he knew where they had met before. “…You found me once, not long after the War of Wrath. Didn’t you?”

Erestor blinked, and came to sit by him. “I met many people in the wake of the war,” he said. “Where was it you and I met?”

“I don’t remember. In the forest—perhaps near the Ered Luin. You told me of the Kinslayings.”

“Oh. Oh! I remember now. Iarwain had warned me about you.” Erestor laughed a little. “Someone terribly melancholy, he said, was lurking in his woods—as though your it was catching.”

“Was it?”

“Oh, I wept when I heard the music that you played, but it did me no lasting harm. It was beautiful, and I have never forgotten it, though I did not know that it was Daeron that I had heard.” Erestor tilted his head slightly as he regarded Daeron. His eyes were dark as his hair, and he had a faint scar near his hairline that Daeron did not remember from long ago. “If I had known who you were I would have spoken with more care. I am sorry.”

Daeron shook his head. “There is no way to soften such news.”

“If I had known who you were, I would have also tried to convince you to return with me to Lindon,” Erestor said.

Daeron managed a small smile. “That is why I did not tell you my name.”

“Well, I am glad you are here now—though I wish you had come here at a happier time, under happier circumstances. Are you in need of anything?”

“No. Unless…” He hesitated a little, then said, “Would you tell me the history of this place?” This earned him a brighter smile, and Erestor gladly put his papers away to tell the tale, though he warned that it was a dark and sorrowful one, at least in the beginning. Daeron had expected nothing less. Even if that were not the case for all tales of Middle-earth, to begin or end in sorrow, he had gleaned enough from things Celebrían had told him to know that there were very few in this valley unfamiliar with war.

Erestor told that and many other tales of the Second Age, of Númenor and of Gondor and Arnor. Some Daeron knew, or had heard bits and pieces of over the years. Much was new to him. He recognized some strange kind of kinship in Prince Amlach—but he hadn’t known that it had been Elrond’s brother, Lúthien’s grandson, who had founded the island kingdom long ago, whose blood still ran through the veins of the kings returned to Middle-earth.

Spring also brought a renewal of Angmar’s efforts, and Elrond’s sons and Glorfindel led a large force out of the valley, both Men and Elves. Daeron watched them go and shivered as the wind shifted to blow from the north. He no longer felt the Witch-king’s grasp on his spirit, but were he to attempt to leave this place, he knew it was only a matter of time before he was caught again. The way to the Sea was closed to him—and he didn’t even know, now, if he still wanted to go.

Elrond came with new songs, healing songs for the spirit fueled by a kind of unquenchable hope that Daeron marveled at. Such hope was beyond him—the Shadow might have been defeated before, but time and time again it returned, stronger than before. How could anyone hope to last against such determined and focused hate?

He did not voice that question to Elrond, but it slipped out when he spoke to Celebrían. She smiled at him. “It is true, ever the Shadow rises again—but ever has it been defeated,” she said. “Angmar is terrible, and has gathered more strength than we had thought—but the Witch-king is not invulnerable. He will meet his end, one way or another.”

“Yet how can one who is already dead be killed?”

“There is some way to destroy him,” Celebrían said, “though it is one we have not yet discovered. Often the doers of great deeds have been those from whom such things are least expected.”

“How can you be so sure?” Daeron asked. He wasn’t sure he had ever felt that kind of certainty. Even behind the Girdle there had still been fear, worry, news trickling in with refugees and the winds of the growing power in the North—growing and growing and growing, until one day surely even Melian would not be able to hold it at bay. Of course, other things had slipped through the Girdle instead, and by the time she might have been truly tested Melian was long gone. A spark of hope had ignited in his heart when the Noldor had come, when they had saved the Falas and beaten the enemy back—but that had been smothered by the truth of how they had come, and nothing had ever been enough to bring it back.

“I do not always feel sure,” Celebrían said. They were seated outside on one of the many small porches of the house, and she had been working on some embroidery, while Daeron just sat and watched the birds flitting through the nearby shrubs. Now she set her work aside and took Daeron’s hand. “Hope is something we choose,” she said, “every day. Some days it is very easy, and some days—many days—it is the hardest thing in the world. Perhaps I sound more confident than I feel, for my sons are away battling the very enemy we speak of now, and I will not be able to set aside my fear for them until they return. Yet I still choose to have hope, with gritted teeth and my hands balled into fists, so that it is at least half-defiance against the encroaching dark.”

“You sound like your mother,” Daeron said. “Speaking of defiance. I don’t think I ever heard Galadriel talk of hope.”

“No? You might now, if you make your way sometime to Lothlórien. Maybe you will go there with me, when next I am able to make the journey.”

“Is it not too dangerous?”

“It is now—but here again we return to hope, don’t we? Someday the roads will be safe enough to travel, singing under the stars, down the southern ways to the Redhorn Pass, and then down the Silverlode into Amroth’s realm.”

“Maybe,” Daeron said. Celebrían squeezed his hand and released it to pick up her needle again. He turned his gaze back to the sparrows, and wondered if he really wanted to see Galadriel and Celeborn again. Celeborn had once been a friend. So had been Amdír, and Oropher—and they were dead, perished fighting the Witch-king’s master far away on the borders of Mordor. Daeron wasn’t sure where he had been then. He’d wandered so long in deep and nameless woods, losing count of the seasons and forgetting at times what it was to speak to another person. Even now after months in Rivendell he found it strange and at times overwhelming to be so surrounded by people, by Men and Elves, all willing and even eager to speak to him, to ask him how he was and whether he wanted or needed anything, when what he had already been given was far more than he knew what to do with. What would he even say to them, Galadriel and Celeborn, who had known him at the height of his power and ability—if they saw him now, diminished and still on the verge of fading away entirely?

He did not think he could bear either their scorn or their pity.

His dreams the next few nights were of Doriath, of its ruin and destruction, and he woke hardly able to convince himself to get out of bed. Clouds had gathered, not quite heavy enough for rain but promising it soon, and Daeron didn’t know if the world seemed drained of all color because of them, or if it was only his own eyes. When the rain did start he just lay in bed and watched it slide down the windowpanes, drops racing and merging with one another. Past the sound of it on the glass and on the roof he could hear someone singing a merry rain song. When had he last felt merry? He could not remember.

Elrond came with hot tea and a bundle of athelas leaves in his hands. Daeron still couldn’t quite tell how the steam smelled different from when Maglor had used it. It reminded him now of heather-clad hills and wide open skies. It hadn’t, before. When he asked about it, Elrond said, “The scent does not materially change much, from patient to patient, but it will bring to mind different things for everyone, according to what you might find soothing or comforting. If it seems different to you now, perhaps it is something in you that has changed.”

Daeron did not think much of anything had changed, not in him. He inhaled deeply the steam from the basin set by the bed, and sipped the tea Elrond handed him. It was sweet and floral in a different way, and the heat against his palms and in his throat felt nice. He was curled up on top of the blankets, leaning against the windowsill. Maglor’s flute lay there, untouched since Daeron had set it down. Sometimes he thought about trying to play, but then he thought that he did not want to further indebt himself. And then he thought of how stupid that was—for when would he ever even see Maglor again?—and felt even more foolish for the way that thought made something in his chest tighten, painful in the same way it got when he thought of how he would never see Lúthien again, or Mablung or Beleg or Elu Thingol or anyone else he’d once loved.

“Is there anything more I can do for you?” Elrond asked him.

“You have done too much already,” Daeron said without looking away from the window.

“I disagree.”

“After what I did—”

“What is it you think you’ve done that is so unforgivable?”

Daeron looked over at Elrond as he sat down beside the bed. “Lúthien’s child, you need to ask? My betrayal brought about the ruin of Doriath.”

Elrond’s eyebrow arched. “Did it?” he asked. “Did you know that Thingol would demand a Silmaril, or suggest such a thing to him?”

“Of course not. But if I had not gone to him—”

“Then he would have discovered Beren some other way.”

“And not necessarily with the same result. It was the secrecy that angered him, the way he slipped through the Girdle unnoticed even by Melian. Lúthien might have softened him, given time to go about it in her own way.”

“Maybe. Maybe not—we can’t know either way, can we? I do not blame you for Doriath’s fall.” Elrond’s mouth quirked in a small, wry smile. It made him look very young for a moment. “Had my mother not come down the river to the Havens of Sirion, she would have never met my father, and I would have never been born. I cannot be thankful that such terrible things happened—the fall of Gondolin, the fall of Doriath, and so many others—but I cannot regret my own existence, either. Out of great grief came great hope and victory, in the end.”

Daeron remembered first seeing the new star, the one they called Gil-Estel, shining on the western horizon. He had never seen a Silmaril, and had not known it for what it was until much later, after his chance meeting with Erestor in the forests of Eriador. He had never been able to look upon that star and feel anything like hope. “If I cannot take the blame for the events that led to Doriath’s fall, I at least betrayed one very dear to me. Maybe you do not blame me for it, but she did, and I do.”

“Why did you do it?”

The words stuck in his throat, and Daeron looked away again, swallowing hard. He spoke without turning his head. “I chanced upon her in the wood, when she went to Beren. I saw her place her hands in his, and…I don’t know how to explain it. I am very little given to foresight, not as others have it—are given visions or some clear knowledge of things to come. But sometimes I can hear…it was as though the song of—of the wood, of her life, of all our lives—as though it changed suddenly. It shifted key, it took on a new rhythm that I did not understand. I fled, and by the time I made it back to Menegroth—I just didn’t know what else to do.”

“And later?”

“She wanted to go after him, to go all the way into Angband if that was what it took. I’ve heard the tale since, I know that they did go there, and they came out again—but fear ruled me still.”

“You loved her and you feared for her,” Elrond said softly. “That is not so unforgivable.”

“Is there anything I could say of myself that you will not excuse?”

“No,” Elrond said, “not when you are in this kind of mood.” He held out his hand, and after a moment Daeron put his into it. Elrond’s power thrummed around him, like a quivering harp string, familiar-and-strange. Daeron didn’t pull back, but he remembered too clearly how it had hurt, that power, when Elrond had yanked him back from the brink of death. It made his heart beat too hard and his breath come short. “You are stronger than you think you are,” Elrond said finally, withdrawing that power, and then his hand. “I do not think you are in any danger of fading away, whatever you might have been suffering before Angmar found you.” Daeron shuddered at the memories—they remained disjointed and unclear. The only sure thing he could recall was the terrible cold and the worse pain. “You were once accounted a great musician. Why do you no longer make music?” Elrond asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Perhaps you might take it up again.” Elrond nodded toward the flute on the windowsill. “I do not think that was left with you by accident.”

“It was Maglor’s cloak,” Daeron said.

“He never kept his instruments in his pockets like that. I doubt that particular habit will have changed. He wanted you to have it.”

Just another little kindness to put on top of all the rest—and to set against his absence. There was nothing keeping Maglor out of Rivendell, no reason for him to stay away—not with Elrond so eager to welcome him. Daeron tried to tell himself he did not want Maglor there, did not want to be reminded of all the things Maglor had done—far worse than anything Daeron ever had—but of course that was a lie, and it got harder and harder to even think of it as time went on.

Another year slipped by, then another, and on and on. It was impossible not to count them there, surrounded by people, with something new happening almost every day. A letter came to him from Lothlórien, as messengers were able to slip in and out of Rivendell, coming and going from the south, bringing news of the goings-on in Gondor and from Wilderland in the north. In his letter Celeborn rejoiced to learn that Daeron lived still, and entreated him to come south himself, to dwell a while with them in Lothlórien—or, if he still felt the need or desire, to make his way to Belfalas and the elven havens there. Daeron sat down several times to try to write a reply, but all he did was stare at the paper without even reaching for a pen, and eventually he gave up. Let Celebrían write to her parents and tell them what she would. It didn’t matter; he had no intention of crossing back over the Misty Mountains any time soon.

Somehow, slowly, he got used to being around people. He could meet Arwen’s gaze almost steadily, and he stopped flinching whenever someone touched him, though not whenever he was startled by movement just at the edge of his vision. He still kept to himself for the most part, preferring the quiet parts of the woods where no one was likely to find and tease him, but after a handful of years he could venture into the Hall of Fire in the evenings and even enjoy some of the songs and stories told there. Elrond was greatly skilled on the harp—Daeron could see Maglor’s teaching in it—and had as lovely a voice as Lúthien had, though of course it was very different in sound. Daeron did not play or sing, and no one ever asked him, although he was often aware of eyes upon him, and could easily imagine how they all wondered at his silence.

He came to dread summertime. Daeron did not remember the date of his final wounding by the Witch-king, but his body knew, and every year his chest pained him and his dreams were plagued by shadows and bone-shaking terror. It was the kind of wound, Elrond told him regretfully, that left far deeper scars than were visible in the body, and the only real cure for it was time.

Once upon a time, Daeron remembered, eventually, he had been a master of shadows—to call or to banish them at his will, or to bring forth light and beauty through the power of his song, of his voice. On a morning after his dreams were plagued by nightmares that had him waking up choking, twisted around in the blankets and feeling like a hunted animal, he finally picked up the flute from the windowsill. The wood was smooth under his fingers. It had been made with care, this flute. Daeron moved his fingers over the holes, reminding himself how it felt, how to do it. The memory returned easier than he’d expected. His hands did not need to be told what to do. He took a breath and played a few notes, and then a few more. He needed practice, especially in holding breath in his lungs, but it was a start. The flute’s sound was sweet and light, and playing again made him feel—something. Not hopeful, but a little more like someone who could hope for things, given time.

He practiced every day, in the quiet privacy of his room with the doors and windows closed. It did not chase away the nightmares, nor the weight of years that still clung to him. But it was something that dragged him out of bed on days when he didn’t want to, even for just a little while until he gave up and retreated back under the blankets where it was warm and safe and quiet.

Thanks to the flute, Maglor remained ever at the edges of Daeron’s thoughts. Bits and pieces came back to Rivendell every few months of someone causing mischief, of a voice heard by soldiers and sometimes even by Glorfindel or one of Elrond’s sons—a voice of great power, issuing a challenge or a warning to Angmar. For a while such tidbits came to Rivendell regularly, though not so often that Daeron noticed immediately when they stopped. When Daeron finally realized how long it had been since he had last heard any rumor of Maglor’s doings, he went to Celebrían to ask if she had heard anything, thinking perhaps it had just not been shared yet with him.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “We’ve had no such news in some time. Maybe it is because Angmar has been beaten back for the moment beyond the North Downs toward the Ettenmoors.”

“Maybe,” Daeron said. But he dreamed that night, and the night after, of Maglor wounded after they had been attacked by orcs on their desperate flight across Cardolan. He remembered the fear that had welled up in him then, seeing blood dripping down Maglor’s arm, and how infuriatingly light Maglor had made of the injury, promising that it was not as bad as it clearly was, as though he’d forgotten how to care for himself.

He owed Maglor his life. That knowledge burrowed under his skin and stayed there, itching where he couldn’t scratch it, as the desire—the need—to go in search of him grew and grew. It was like a song he could almost hear.

Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. Once he made his decision it was like the Music became clear to him again, and he suddenly knew where he needed to go. When Daeron went to speak to Elrond, he did not seem surprised, though he frowned. “You cannot be thinking of going north?” he said. “You are not—”

“No,” Daeron said. “No, I would be useless even if I hadn’t—it is west that I must go, but I would go south first, away from…everything. I cannot say why except I just—I need to find him.”

“Must you go alone, or would you accept a companion?” Elrond asked. “There are few that I can spare—but Erestor knows Eriador well.”

Daeron hesitated. He had no wish for a companion. He didn’t now whether he wanted to punch Maglor or kiss him, and either way he didn’t want an an audience for it.

When he did not answer immediately, Elrond smiled a little wryly. “You can say no and I will not take offense. What will you do when you find him?”

When, he said, not if. That felt encouraging, almost hopeful. “I don’t know,” Daeron said. “But I owe him my life, and it makes me uneasy that he has disappeared so suddenly.”

“If I asked you to bring him here, would you do it?”

“Do you think he would come?”

“Maybe not. But if he stays away because of some kind of doubt as to his welcome, you can tell him that he’s wrong. I want nothing more than to see him here, safe in my valley. I would see both of you here and safe.” When Daeron blinked at him he smiled. “Is it so surprising to hear that you are liked, Daeron—that you are wanted?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s true.”

Daeron was provided with ample supplies, plus a bow that he wasn’t sure he remembered how to use, and a knife that he did know how to use but hoped he wouldn’t have to. Arwen gave him a cloak and, when he was ready to leave, embraced him. “I hope to see you again soon!” she said. “Be safe, Daeron.”

Celebrían embraced him likewise. Elrond did not, but he grasped his hand. “May the stars light your way, Daeron,” he said quietly. “Good luck.”

The least he could do, Daeron thought as he climbed the path out of the valley, a map in his pocket and a vague idea of needing to go southwest, was drag Maglor back to Rivendell. Maglor had dragged him halfway across Eriador when he didn’t have to, and if Daeron could do the same he would repay both him and Elrond at least some of the debt that he owed them both. Maglor had saved his life, and Elrond had done the same and then given him the chance to learn how to want to live again.

He followed the path marked out by white stones from Rivendell to the Bruinen, but did not cross. Instead he turned south, thinking to follow it to where it met the Mitheithel and flowed into the Gwathló. Far enough south would see him to Tharbad, and if he heard no rumors there that might turn him aside, he would continue on downriver to the coast. That was where Maglor was most likely to be found, if the old stories were true, though Daeron wondered if they really were. Maglor had been nowhere near the Sea when he’d pulled Daeron out of the Baranduin.

The journey to Tharbad was long and lonely. Daeron hadn’t realized before how used to other people he’d gotten until all of a sudden he was no longer surrounded by them. Yet it was also familiar, and after a while he fell back into the rhythms of solitary travel. He’d brought Maglor’s flute, but played seldom. Even as he went farther and farther south and away from the war, it felt too dangerous. He built no fires, and slept in the hollows of trees and underneath stands of heather, singing quiet songs of hiding and concealment each evening when he made his small camp. It was only halfway to Tharbad that he realized they were the same songs Maglor had sung.

Just as the city came into view in the distance, Daeron found himself confronted by a nightingale—and then another, both of them fluttering around his head and singing that song, the one neither he nor Maglor had taught them but that they somehow knew anyway. West, west! they cheeped at him in between snatches of verse. Go west, go west!

“Is that where I’ll find Maglor?” Daeron asked them, and they sang a chorus of yeses before flying away across the Gwathló and back. Well, then. “All right, all right. But I cannot cross here.”

There were no rumors of any strange Elven wanderer or singer to be heard in Tharbad. Daeron exchanged a few bits of news of his own as he purchased some more supplies, and then made his way across the bridge. The birds met him again on the other side, and urged him to take the North-South Road. Daeron followed them, because he didn’t know what else to do and did not really want to go all the way to the coast and then wander along the beaches hoping to stumble upon what he sought, which had been his only plan before.

“Why are you so insistent?” he asked the nightingales when they stopped flying about to perch on his shoulders. They didn’t answer.

Soon the lands started to look familiar, and Daeron realized he had come to the place—or very near to it—that he and Maglor had crossed this road, heading east. He halted, hesitant to continue northward. That would bring him to Sarn Ford, the easiest place to cross the Baranduin, but that was far nearer to the East-West Road and what remained of Cardolan and Arthedain than he wanted to go. Too close to where he’d escaped the Witch-king, where there might still be enemies about, whatever the reports said that had come to Rivendell before his departure. That was weeks ago, now, and who knew what had changed?

How strange, he thought as he left the road to head directly west, to be retracing their steps. There was no hurry now, no one’s life hanging in the balance. There was only himself and the nightingales, who came and went, sometimes vanishing for days before they came back to urge him on. They seemed to feel some sort of urgency, which made Daeron quicken his steps and think of how very soon he would need to decide indeed whether he would be happy to see Maglor or just…angry.

Because he was angry, he realized somewhere around the time the Baranduin came into view, brown and lazy as it flowed along. He was furious—not even for Doriath or Sirion or any of that, not anymore. He was angry that Maglor had done everything he’d done and then left him. That he had called himself selfish while doing the most selfless thing Daeron could imagine, and then just—just—

He stopped on the bank of the river and pressed his hands to his face. He listened to the sound of the water flowing through the reeds and remembered, faintly, drifting down the current on the broken raft. He did not remember how he had come to be on the raft, or how it was that the slow current of this river had borne him away to safety in spite of the power and armies at the Witch-king’s disposal. Daeron took a deep breath, aware that he was shaking, and took off his cloak to stuff it into his pack so that he might keep it dry. The river was slow but deep. He removed his shoes, too, and grimaced when his bare feet met the slick mud of the riverbed. On the opposite bank he quickly changed into clean clothes, and sat for a while to listen to the wind in the bulrushes and to the birds that flitted about the riverbank. The nightingales had disappeared, and he wasn’t sure now where to go. There was no sign of Maglor anywhere near the river, though Daeron had half-expected to find him there. After a while he stood up and looked around, and saw in the far distance the dark shapes of mountains, and closer at hand a hill rising up out of the plains. It was as good a landmark as any, and he began to walk again. Perhaps Maglor was haunting the shores on the other side of the mountains, or south of them.

As he approached the hill, one of the nightingales returned. Come, come! it cheeped at him, and flew away directly toward the hill. Daeron followed, and found it perched on a bush outside of a cave at the hill’s base. Inside was a small stack of firewood, the remnants of a fire—very old, it seemed—and a harp case, dusty and also clearly left there for some time. Daeron stared at the scene, and then turned back to look eastward. From the top of this hill the river would be visible, and this seemed to be a place that Maglor had visited at least once, or often enough that he felt that he could leave things behind.

Daeron crouched by the harp case and brushed some of the dust off of it. Signs of protection and preservation had been carved into the wood, interspersed with eight-pointed stars, as though he needed more confirmation of its owner.

Well, this was a place Maglor had been, but not a place he was. Daeron sighed and dropped his own pack to the floor beside the harp case. He thought about starting a fire, but the day was still warm and he was tired—tired, and alone, and more lonely than he had been in years. Solitude stopped feeling lonely if it went on long enough. Now he had grown used to living among others, to being part of something, even if he still kept to the edges of it, content to fade into the background.

He found, as he sat by the cave’s entrance and played Maglor’s flute, that he wanted to go back to Rivendell, and not only to drag Maglor back with him for his and Elrond’s sakes.

Over the next few days he explored the hill and the woods behind it, finding other hills leading back toward the mountains in the west. He found a cold spring on the other side of the hill from the little cave, and a bramble of blackberries just ripening. Daeron wasn’t sure why he lingered, except that when he ventured too far the nightingales came to flutter around his face and cheep at him until he turned back. “He isn’t here!” Daeron exclaimed the third time they did it. “What do you want me to stay in an empty cave for? Who sent you?” Of course they didn’t answer, just cheeped at him to stay! Stay!

Then, when he ventured back out to the blackberries, he saw movement in the trees, someone coming up from the south. Daeron abandoned the berries and ducked behind a tree, heart in his throat. He reached for his belt but of course he’d left the knife behind in the cave, thinking he was entirely alone, forgetting that it was never that safe out in the wild. The quiet and the nightingales had lulled him into foolishness.

The figure seemed to be unaware of him, and passed by his tree without pausing. They were cloaked, tall and dark-haired, and when Daeron caught a glimpse of their hand he realized—it was Maglor. Of course it was Maglor. His fear gave way, and he moved before he could think about it, crashing into Maglor and sending them both tumbling over each other down the short slope to the softer mossy ground near the cold spring. They landed with Daeron on to of Maglor, pinning his wrists over his head, straddling his stomach. Maglor stared at him with wide grey-green eyes, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath, beautiful and infuriating all at once. “What,” Daeron demanded when he caught his own breath, “is wrong with you?”