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starsprayRating: T
Characters: Sons of Feanor, Elrond, Feanor, Daeron, various others
Warnings: n/a
Summary: After years in Lórien, Maglor and Maedhros are ready to return to their family and to make something new with their lives--but to move forward, all of Fëanor's sons must decide how, or if, they can ever reconcile with their father.
Note: This fic is a direct sequel to High in the Clean Blue Air.
Prologue / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter
When Maglor arrived back at Finrod’s house he found it empty but for the housekeeper, who told him that he would find Daeron and Celegorm at Curufin’s house. So, after changing out of his travel clothes, he picked up Pídhres and went there. He hadn’t yet visited Curufin at home, and found the neighborhood to be bustling and colorful, full of workshops tucked in between homes along the tree-shaded street, many of which were full of window boxes and sported rooftop gardens, like Rundamírë’s.
The housekeeper let him in and directed him through the house to the workshop next door, where he found Daeron with Celegorm and Curufin and Maedhros. “You’re back!” Daeron flung himself at Maglor, who dropped Pídhres just in time to catch him. “How was it?”
“Quiet,” Maglor said. “Did I miss anything interesting?”
“Not really,” said Daeron. “Your mother arrived yesterday but I think she’s already gone home. She had that rather distracted air she gets when she’s itching to start some new project.”
“She left this morning,” Celegorm said. He and Curufin and Maedhros were all watching Maglor with identical expression of poorly-concealed concern. “How was it really?”
“Quiet,” Maglor repeated. He really did feel better for having gone, for having seen it—the beauty of the place, lonely and isolated as it was. It was like he’d left some of the weight behind by the lake when he’d left. “I’m fine. I’d send you to Elrond for confirmation, but he was waylaid by Círdan on our way back and is gone to see Gil-galad.”
“Convenient,” said Celegorm. Maedhros elbowed him.
Daeron drew back to take Maglor’s face in his hands, searching his eyes for a moment. Then he kissed him. “Of course you’re fine,” he said.
“At least someone believes me,” Maglor muttered.
“We’d believe you if you acted like you’re really fine,” Curufin said. He grabbed Pídhres by the scruff of her neck when she tried to slink by him toward the door standing ajar at the back of the workshop. “Oh no you don’t, mistress. Cáno, if your cat gets into my forge I’m not responsible for what happens.”
“Of course,” Maglor said. He went to take Pídhres back. “I really do feel much better than I did when I left, but if you want me to prove it just point me in the direction of your daughters, Curvo. I’ll fill their heads with tales of adventures and spoil them with candy from the market.”
“I like that plan,” Maedhros said. “Curvo, we’re going to take your girls to the market.”
“Oh, fine,” Curufin said, rolling his eyes and failing to hide a smile. “Just bring them back in time for dinner—and you’re staying, too. I’m going to get Ambarussa to come over so we can all seven be in one place at the same time at least once more before you all leave Tirion.”
“Are Ambarussa leaving?” Maglor asked as he set Pídhres on his shoulder.
“Any day now, presumably, but you know how they are.”
Maglor stepped over to embrace Tyelko. “I’m fine, Tyelko, don’t worry,” he said. “I promise.”
“If you say so.”
“If he’s not fine now he will be by tomorrow morning,” Daeron said cheerfully. “I’ll make sure of it.” This got all three of Maglor’s brothers to make disgusted faces and only vaguely coherent sounds of protest.
“I’ll hold you to that,” Maglor said, laughing as Celegorm made a gagging noise.
“I don’t know what you’re all making such a fuss about. I’m talking about making music,” Daeron said.
“You’re terrible,” Curufin said. “Get out of my workshop.”
Maglor laughed again and embraced him next. “All right, we’re going—we’re off to ruin your children’s appetites for dinner and make sure they keep you up all night.”
“I can’t believe out of the three of you Tyelko is the one least likely to make trouble,” Curufin sighed, but he was smiling.
“Don’t you remember when you told us we weren’t to act like the eldest brothers anymore?” Maedhros laughed. “You can’t have it both ways, Curvo!”
The girls were with Rundamírë, Lisgalen, and Caranthir in Rundamírë’s workshop, where she and Lisgalen were working on something and Caranthir seemed to be in charge of keeping Náriel and Calissë distracted and out of their mother’s hair. “Hello, Rundamírë!” Maglor said brightly. “We’ve come to steal your children away.”
Rundamírë looked up and laughed. “Of course you have,” she said, as Calissë and Náriel scrambled to their feet with crows of delight. “Just make sure they’re back before dinner.”
“Yes, of course—we’ve already promised Curvo. Moryo, want to come too?”
“Of course I do.” Caranthir leaned over to kiss Lisgalen, and then followed them downstairs. “Where are we going?”
“To spoil everyone with sweets and prove to certain of our brothers that I’m perfectly fine, thank you very much,” Maglor said.
They made it to the street before Náriel and Calissë got into an argument over who got to ride on Maedhros’ shoulders first. While Maedhros mediated, Caranthir nudged Maglor with his elbow. “How was Formenos?”
“Quiet,” Maglor said. “I’m glad I went—really. It felt a little like visiting Ekkaia, if you know what I mean.”
“I’m not sure I do, but that’s all right.” Caranthir, fortunately, was more willing to believe Maglor when he said he was all right, and so he just stepped forward to scoop Calissë up onto his own shoulders, leaving Náriel for Maedhros. Pídhres curled around Maglor’s shoulders, and Daeron reached for his hand.
It was a bright and sunny afternoon, and they bought far too many sweets for Náriel and Calissë, and then somehow Maglor found himself telling half-made-up adventure stories from Middle-earth to what seemed like half the children in Tirion, gathered around a fountain in one of the larger squares. It was as unlike Formenos as it was possible to be. Maedhros sent all the children home afterward with pockets full of hard candies and sweets after they all had a turn petting Pídhres. “That’s one way to completely upend your reputation,” Caranthir remarked as the last handful of children darted away, giggling, to answer their parents’ calls. “Keep your children away from those Fëanorians, or they’ll come home full to bounce off your walls and refuse to go to bed on time, full of stories about talking rabbits and wizards.” Maedhros laughed.
“Speaking of going home,” Maglor said, “we did promise not to be late for dinner.” He picked up Náriel, who yawned and snuggled into his arms. Calissë finally got her turn on Maedhros’ shoulders. Daeron took several minutes to catch Pídhres before rejoining them to make the walk back home. “And you two had better eat all your vegetables, or your parents won’t let us take you out like this again.”
“You’ll just have to come kidnap us, like Uncle Tyelko did last year,” said Calissë.
“Absolutely not,” said Maglor, who could tease Curufin about doing such a thing but didn’t actually intend to encourage such excitement in Náriel or Calissë.
“And risk your ammë’s wrath? I don’t think so,” said Maedhros.
“What about Atya?” Calissë asked.
“We aren’t scared of him,” said Caranthir. “Rundamírë can be terrifying.”
“No, Atya’s not scary,” Náriel said through a yawn. “He’s the leastest scariest person in the whole world.” Caranthir snorted, covering his mouth to smother his laughter.
“Who’s the scariest, do you think?” Maglor asked.
“Umm…” Náriel didn’t open her eyes, and hummed for a few moments as she thought. “Calissë, what was that scary monster at the parade on Midsummer?”
“That doesn’t count, Náriel,” Calissë said, “it was just a costume. There’s no such things as balrogs anyway.”
“That’s not true!” Náriel protested, opening her eyes and straightening up now that there was a fight to be had. “Atya said he saw one, and it was really scary!”
“Atya was just telling stories,” Calissë said, “like Uncle Cáno and the enchantress.”
“I beg your pardon,” Maglor said, pretending to be affronted as Caranthir’s struggle not to laugh made him choke. “Are you accusing me of making up that story, Calissë? It’s as true as the one about Bilbo and the dragon! You can ask Elladan and Elrohir when next you see them. Or Elrond!”
“Balrogs were real,” Maedhros said, before Calissë could say anything more, “but they aren’t anymore.”
“Oh,” said Calissë.
“Uncle Nelyo,” Náriel said, as though announcing something.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“No, I mean—you’re the scariest person I can think of.”
Maedhros raised his eyebrows as Caranthir stopped trying to hide his laughter. “Am I really?”
“Only sometimes,” Calissë said. “Atya says you frowned too much when you were our age and your face got stuck like that, but that doesn’t make any sense because you’ve got a brand new face from Mandos.”
“He’s not wrong, exactly,” Maedhros said, a little ruefully. “I don’t mean to be fearsome.”
“That’s his brooding face,” Daeron said. “Whenever he’s making it, you must be sure to go interrupt whatever he’s thinking of.”
“Don’t make me knock you into the next fountain,” Maedhros said.
“The best way,” Maglor added, “is to start tickling him. He’s most ticklish on his ribs—”
“You’re as bad as each other!” Maedhros exclaimed as the girls burst into giggles. “I am not ticklish—”
“Is just what someone who is very ticklish would say,” Caranthir said, and ducked under the swing Maedhros took at him.
Curufin met them at the door when they arrived, all still laughing. Maglor nearly dropped Náriel when she tried to throw herself out of his arms at Curufin, who caught her easily. “Did you have fun?” he asked.
“Oh yes!”
Ambarussa had arrived in their absence, and were with Celegorm in the parlor. Curufin sent the girls to wash up for dinner before joining the rest of them there. “If you ask me how I am,” Maglor said when Amras looked at him and opened his mouth, “I’ll smother you with that pillow.”
“He’s fine,” Caranthir said, dropping onto the sofa, half on top of Amrod. “When are you two leaving for the woods?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Amrod as he shoved Caranthir off, knocking him into Celegorm, who only just managed to lift his wineglass out of the way in time. “When are you going to Alqualondë, Cáno?”
“I don’t know. In a few days, maybe. I’ve done all I needed to do here.”
“All my errands are completed,” Daeron said when Maglor glanced at him. “Whenever you want to go, I’m ready. Are we waiting for Elrond?”
“No. I have no idea how long he’ll stay with Gil-galad, but it certainly won’t be a short visit.”
Dinner was chaotic and cheerful, with all seven of them plus Daeron and Lisgalen and Rundamírë and all of Curufin’s children. There was bickering and teasing and so much laughter that even if Maglor had been in a poor mood upon returning to Tirion, this alone would have banished it. They all lingered at Curufin’s house long into the evening after Calissë and Náriel were finally convinced to go to bed, talking of everything and anything, just as they had when they were so much younger and more carefree.
As they made their way back to Finrod’s house the moon was high, and Celegorm slung an arm over Maglor’s shoulder. “Did I tell you I’m going home with Nelyo instead of to Alqualondë?”
“No,” said Maglor.
“That just leaves you and Daeron.”
“Oh no,” Maglor said flatly, “whatever shall we do. We’ve never traveled together before, alone, just the two of us—”
“Oh shut up. I’m not worried about you this time. Moryo told me that Daeron’s parents are waiting for him.” Celegorm leaned forward to look at Daeron on Maglor’s other side. “Do you want someone besides Maglor with you?”
Daeron smiled at him. “No,” he said, “but I do appreciate that you’ve thought of it. I’ll be fine.”
“If it doesn’t go well, you can come rant at any of us about it,” Celegorm said.
“I’m rather hoping it will go well, but thank you for that too. Whatever happens, I’ll be sure to come tell you all about it.”
When they were alone later, Maglor asked, “How are you really?”
Daeron shook his head. “Far more nervous than I was ever going to admit to Celegorm. I thought I had set this aside, but the closer I get the worse I feel.”
“Come here, then.” Maglor pulled Daeron into his arms. “Shall I kiss you senseless?”
“Oh, yes please.”
They lingered a few more days in Tirion, and then Maglor made one last visit to the palace to take leave of Fingolfin. Findis caught him as he was leaving. “Have you said goodbye to your father?” she asked.
“No. I can’t—” Maglor swallowed a sigh when she frowned at him—though it was a look of concern rather than disapproval, which was a little easier to bear. “I’ve spoken to him. Twice. I don’t hate him. What more do you want from me? I cannot—I must finish this song before I can turn my thoughts to anything else.”
“Are you still afraid?” she asked.
“Yes,” Maglor said, because there wasn’t any point in denying it. “Please leave my brothers alone about it—please do us all the courtesy of allowing us to make our own choices. We are not children, and we are never going to be what we were before.”
“I am not naive, Macalaurë,” Findis said. “I know you are all different—”
“Then let us be different.” Maglor took a breath, and added, “I am glad that my father has you on his side, truly. I don’t want him to be unhappy. I just—I have nothing more to give right now.”
“I understand. I just know it is sometimes too easy to get caught up in your own pain, until you lose sight of the way out, especially for those who feel such things so strongly. I do not want that for you—for any of you.”
“Thank you—truly—but this isn’t the sort of problem anyone else can solve for us.”
Back at Finrod’s house he found his brothers waiting to say goodbye. “Tyelko and I are leaving tomorrow,” Maedhros said as he wrapped an arm around Maglor’s shoulders. “And Ambarussa the day after.”
“So they say,” Curufin muttered.
“We’re taking Atya with us,” Amrod added. “I think he’s actually looking forward to it.”
“He’ll be almost the first person to actually see whee you live,” saids Caranthir. “Of course he’s looking forward to it.”
“You all act like we live in some strange and inaccessible mountain cave,” Amras said. “Honestly, it’s not that hard to find.”
“You made it hard to find for years,” said Celegorm.
“No, we didn’t. You just never looked.”
It was always a little startling to remember that all his brothers had been scattered and divided before his return. Maglor had met them all together, by Ekkaia, but it had been terribly new and fragile for all of them—not just him. There were still ways in which they clashed and didn’t fit together as they once had. He leaned against Maedhros as the twins and Celegorm bickered, and Caranthir and Curufin started a separate conversation about making their own plans to go to Nerdanel’s house, and whether they would go before or after Maglor and Daeron returned from Alqualondë, since Maglor owed their grandparents a proper visit before he went on to Taur-en-Gellam. Maedhros was quiet, thoughtful if not quite unhappy, but when Maglor caught his eye later, as they all prepared to leave, he just shook his head. Whatever was in his mind, they would speak of it later, away from Tirion.
Maglor and Daeron left the same day Ambarussa and Fëanor did, though by a different gate, and so they did not cross paths. The road through the Calacirya was familiar. The sight of Alqualondë glittering on the shores of Eldamar was too, though the city had grown, and new roads branched out northward, though from what Maglor could see they were not much used. He’d seen it before when he’d first sailed come west, but had been preoccupied with other things and hadn’t taken much notice. “What’s north, besides Lady Elwing’s tower?” he asked Daeron as they rode down toward the southern outskirts of Alqualondë, where Finarfin dwelled.
“Since the rising of the sun, it seems that Araman is no longer as desolate as it was,” Daeron said. “Not many live there, I think, and since the end of the War of Wrath they are mostly Sindar who chose to live near to Elwing. I’ve not been back to Alqualondë since we first sailed, though, so all I know comes second- or third-hand.”
Maglor glanced up from the city, past the bay, and out toward the Sea. Oh, he’d missed the sight of it—more than he had realized until that moment. The wind was in the east and it smelled fresh and clean and faintly salty, familiar and comforting.
He looked away from the sea and turned his horse off the main road toward the one that Finrod had described to him, that did not lead directly toward Alqualondë, but to Finarfin and Eärwen’s home outside of it, tucked back toward the Pelóri. It was built in the familiar style of Alqualondë, open to the breezes off the bay, built of pale stones with many columns and graceful arches. Maglor recognized his mother’s work in how some of the columns had been carved into the figures of people or trees.
Eärwen emerged to greet them as they dismounted in the courtyard. “Welcome, Macalaurë,” she said, smiling at him and holding out her hands.
“Hello, Aunt Eärwen,” Maglor said, smiling back. He introduced Daeron, who bowed over Eärwen’s hand, and she led the way inside, where Finarfin rose from his seat in a large and airy room meant for entertaining. He remembered his uncle as smiling and kind, that it was easy to forget he stood as tall as his brothers because of the way he held himself, the way he withdrew from attention or strife. He did not hold himself small now, and there was something grave in his bearing that had not been there before. It did not surprise Maglor to see it, really, but he did feel relieved that Finarfin seemed genuinely happy to see him, and to meet Daeron.
“But where is Elrond?” Finarfin asked as they sat down again. “Findaráto said that he would also be with you.”
“He was called away before we left Tirion,” Maglor said, “to see Gil-galad.”
“We heard that Gil-galad had returned,” Eärwen said, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Findekáno and Gilheneth must be overjoyed.”
“They are.”
Finarfin knew why Maglor had come to see him, but it was a few days before he invited Maglor to sit outside alone with him so they could speak privately. When Maglor stepped outside he found Finarfin just sitting down by one of the fountains, moving stiffly and rubbing at his knee once he was seated. He looked up and grimaced ruefully at Maglor. “An old injury from the War of Wrath,” he said. “Most days it doesn’t bother me, but at times it grows stiff.”
“I understand.”
“I suppose you would. Come sit. What’s behind this sudden request of my mother’s for such a song?”
“It is long overdue, she says,” Maglor said as he sat on the lip of the fountain. The water spilled into the basin from a flower in bloom, a lily with long petals down which the water flowed in a never ending stream.
“I don’t think either my mother or Míriel would ask for such a song just because,” Finarfin said. “There is some greater purpose behind it. No one needs a song to remember Finwë. Do they want you to try to sway the Valar with your music and your words, since nothing else has worked?” He said it clearly as a joke, but his eyes narrowed when Maglor didn’t laugh—it was an expression that made him look rather shockingly like Fëanor. “That is what you are going to try to do, isn’t it?”
“It is what they want me to do,” Maglor said. “I told Míriel I didn’t think it would work—the Valar will not listen to me, not when they haven’t listened to them or to Ingwë or Thingol or anyone else.”
“Then why are you doing it?” Finarfin asked.
“I had already agreed to write the song before she told me the real purpose behind it, and it is wrong that there is no such song for him already.”
“You were not here to write it,” Finarfin said.
“I am not the only singer or songwriter among the Noldor, or even in our family.”
“No, but you are the best.” Finarfin sighed. “It should be written, and you are right—someone could have and should have done it long ago, only none of us had the heart for it.”
“What would you wish for me to sing of?” Maglor asked.
“Is that all you came to ask me?”
“It is what I’m asking everyone. You can tell me anything—it’s just that that seems the best place to start.”
Finarfin sighed again, and looked away, out toward the sea, just visible through the trees. There were no walls here, any more than there were in Alqualondë, or Tirion. Sometimes that still made Maglor faintly nervous. Finally, he said, “Findis and I fought over the throne when I returned. It was such an absurd parody of Nolofinwë and Fëanáro’s feud that I started laughing halfway through and then couldn’t stop—and then of course Findis won, and after they managed to calm me down and everyone was assured I hadn’t actually gone mad I was crowned and that was that. Did you know the ceremony dates back to Cuiviénen? It never needed updating, before.”
“I do know,” Maglor said. “We had to perform it for Maedhros, and there were plans being talked of for my own coronation before Fingon brought him back.” And then of course there had been Fingolfin’s coronation, and later Fingon’s…if Turgon or Gil-galad had bothered with any such ceremonies, Maglor had not been there to see.
“I’m not sure what I can tell you for your song that you haven’t already heard, or do not already know. I was woefully unprepared to lead anyone, especially in the wake of his death and the Darkening, and everyone else’s departure. No one ever believes me, but I was terribly angry with you all for a very long time, but I was angriest of all with my father. Not for anything he did—but for dying. He was who we needed in the dark. Not me, or even Findis. It was Finwë that had led us out of it in the first place—he who should have been here to lead us through it again.”
“I believe you,” Maglor said. Finarfin looked at him skeptically. His eyes were not grey but blue, like Finrod’s, and he looked so very tired, even now years after he’d handed the crown over to Fingolfin. Maglor wondered if his stiff leg was really just stiff sometimes, or if he only made light of it. “I was angry too.”
“I heard you raised your voice at your father.”
“I did. It was years ago now, just after I arrived on these shores.”
“What did you say to him?”
Maglor shrugged, looking away himself. “Mostly I threw his own words back at him. You know the tales they tell of me, surely—haunting the mists on the shore, singing in pain and regret, and all of it.”
“I had thought they were merely stories.”
“They were true enough for a long time. Sometimes grief feels an awful lot like fear, sometimes it feels more like rage. Most of the time it’s just awful.”
“Are you still angry?”
“No. I shouted at him and then ran away to Ekkaia and cried a great deal, and that seems to have vented it all. Are you?”
“I don’t know.”
“I know how that feels, too,” Maglor said. They shared a small smile, and sat in silence for a while, listening to the water of the fountain.
Finally, Finarfin brushed a strand of hair out of his face and said, “I hope it works, this song of yours, though I also hope you’ll forgive me if I say I cannot really believe that it will.”
“There’s nothing to forgive. I’m no Lúthien. I don’t believe it will work, either.”
“Why agree, then—you never did say—why agree to perform it before the Valar, and not just to write it as you first promised? I’ve heard that you do not perform for anyone anymore.”
“I performed in Tirion earlier this week,” said Maglor. “It wasn’t so bad. I don’t really want to explain why performance feels so daunting now. But…it just feels like something I must do. This song. This singing. I don’t think it will work, but I must still try. I can’t explain any better than that.”
Finarfin sighed, but another very small smile touched his lips. “I suppose if they will hear anyone, it will be you.”
Maedhros had said the same thing. As though everything Maglor actually was, everything he had done and failed to do, was nothing against the reputation of his voice. “Is there anything you can tell me of Finwë that I might not know?”
“I don’t know. He is my father, and I love him, and I wish that I could hope for his return. But I left Tirion for Alqualondë for many reasons after I wed, and the tension he seemed unable to quell was one of them.”
“Could he have done anything without seeming to take a side and causing even more trouble?” Maglor asked.
“Perhaps not—otherwise he would have. Whatever his faults, he was a leader—a king, and a good one. It is true that when he left for Formenos with you there was a great deal of disquiet in Tirion; no one was happy with his choice, and I think no one would have been happy had he chosen to stay, either. Whatever Nolofinwë wanted, it was not to take up such a regency in such a way. But having worn the crown myself, I am not foolish enough to believe I would have handled it any better. I don’t know what he should have done, or could have done. As his youngest son, however, that does not stop me from wishing he had done something.”
Maglor thought of what Findis had said, in Imloth Ningloron—of Melkor and the ultimate source of the Noldor’s ruin. “Do you think it would have gotten that bad if it were not for Morgoth?” he asked.
“No,” said Finarfin. “Before the rumors of usurpation and whatever else Nolofinwë was supposed to be up to, Fëanáro did not like us and did not try to hide it, but there was no real conflict. He was kind to our children—I think he was even fond of them—even if he was not always kind to us. There was tension and I was still glad to get away from it when I married, but without Melkor’s interference we might have all just…gone along in peace, if not perfect harmony.” He paused, thinking. The breeze picked up, coming from the east. Maglor could hear the sound of gulls on it, and a longing opened up in his heart to abandon everything and go wandering; he smothered it, but only with difficulty. Unaware of Maglor’s thoughts, Finarfin went on, “Melkor would not have been able to do such damage, though, if the seeds were not already there. It took very little for your father to start to believe the worst, and little more for Nolofinwë to start making plans of his own, should Fëanáro do something foolish—though even Nolofinwë never expected him to actually draw a blade on him, let alone before our father and the whole of Tirion. We need not fear such interference now, but it would be a mistake for any of us to forget what we are capable of.”
“I don’t think we need fear that,” Maglor said quietly.
“Does your hand pain you?” Finarfin asked after a moment. Maglor looked down and realized he had been rubbing his thumb over the scars.
“No. Just an old habit.” He made himself stop. “Will you attend the great gathering that Ingwë is planning?”
“I suppose I must,” Finarfin said, smiling slightly. “If nothing else, I will go to hear you sing with Daeron and with Elemmírë. From what Findaráto has written, it is not a thing to miss.”
“I hope it will live up to expectations,” said Maglor.
“Why should it not?”
“It has been a very long time since you have heard me sing, Uncle,” Maglor said. “I’m told that my voice is not as greatly changed as I feel it to be, but it is still different.”
“Different does not mean diminished.”
“No, but I have been—diminished, I mean.” No one liked it when he said such things, but it was still true. He was stronger now—getting stronger every day—but he would never be the same singer whose voice once echoed through Tirion, knowing nothing but fearless joy. “Thank you for speaking to me, Uncle. Do you think Olwë would meet with me too?”
“I’m sure he would,” Finarfin said, “but he is still visiting Elu Thingol, and Elulindo rules in his absence.”
“Oh. That will make it simple, then,” said Maglor, “since I intend to speak to Thingol too.”
“You are thorough,” Finarfin said. He got to his feet, and only the first step he took was limping before his knee loosened. When Maglor also rose, Finarfin turned to look at him. In his own way, his gaze was as piercing as Galadriel’s. Maglor met it and let Finarfin see whatever it was he was looking for. Finally, Finarfin sighed. “Whether it moves the Valar or not, thank you,” he said. “It means a great deal that you are willing to try.”
“I miss him too,” Maglor said. “And I have been wrong about so many things—enough people believe that my words will be enough to move the Valar that I don’t think I could live with myself if I didn’t try.”
