A Hundred Miles Through the Desert - Chapter Thirty Nine

[starspray]

Fandom: Tolkien
Rating: 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

 

The weather was fine for travel, the nights cool but not yet too cold and the days warm and bright. Daeron and Maglor spent those days teaching Calissë all the traveling songs they each had learned in Middle-earth, and answering her many questions about where exactly they had learned them, and about the flowers and birds and beasts that she spotted on their own journey. She wanted to know everything, and every answer they gave her only produced more questions. The journey to Taur-en-Gellam was not long anyway, and it passed quickly and cheerfully.

They came to the forest late in the evening, having not wanted to stop and camp in the woods when only another hour or so would bring them to proper beds. Calissë was tired enough that Maglor had lifted her off of her pony into the saddle with him, and tucked his cloak around her so she could drift off against his chest. He hummed quiet songs as they rode, one hand on the reins and the other securely around Calissë. “Ah, too bad it’s dark,” Daeron murmured as the road led them through a grove of trees towering above them, pale silver and seeming to shimmer faintly in the growing darkness. Maglor tilted his head back to look up into the shadowy canopy, knowing the leaves were silver too, seen from beneath, and maybe just starting to turn golden at the edges. Mellyrn. He hadn’t seen such a grove since he’d left Lothlórien.

The folk of Taur-en-Gellam lived in a combination of houses high in the branches, such as the Galadhrim in Lothlórien, and in more traditional homes built upon the ground, often against or around trees that grew into a part of the structure itself. Mablung’s was one such house, sprawling and climbing around the trunk of an enormous beech. Daeron had said before that Beleg also lived there, when he wasn’t away wandering the forests, in addition to Mablung’s parents and himself. It was empty when they arrived. “They’ll all be at some dinner or event or something,” Daeron said. “There’s feasting and dancing and music somewhere most nights.”

Maglor set Calissë down. She yawned, but looked around curiously. “Will they be back late?” Maglor asked.

“Almost certainly—unless Melian mentions our arrival to them. We certainly did not come entirely unnoticed. Come on. The kitchen is this way, and then I’ll go find out which room my aunt has chosen for Calissë.”

After they ate a meal that wasn’t traveling rations, Daeron drew a bath for Calissë, and then he and Maglor took their bags upstairs to the bedrooms. Pídhres vanished to explore the house and make herself at home. Calissë’s room was just across the hall from Daeron’s. Daeron’s room was only slightly smaller than the room they shared at Imloth Ningloron, and cluttered with instruments and books, though it was all neatly arranged, down to the piles of paper and parchment on his desk. There was a balcony too, full of pots and boxes with flowering plants and green twining vines, though they were all starting to go to seed with the autumn.

“Tomorrow will be busy,” Daeron said as he dropped his bags at the foot of the bed. He hesitated a moment before adding, “I think it is likely that Galathil will come seeking you even before we are called before Thingol.”

“I hadn’t forgotten,” Maglor said. “I just don’t want Calissë present for that meeting.”

“Of course—Aunt Lacheryn will keep her busy. Do you want me there?”

“I would like it if you were at least nearby,” Maglor said. He set his own bags down. “But whatever Galathil has to say to me, he has the right to say it—you do not need to interfere.”

“I don’t think he wants to berate you,” said Daeron.

“Still.”

A little while later, as Maglor helped Calissë get ready for bed after her bath she asked, hesitantly, “Uncle Cáno, if I wake up scared can I come find you?”

“Of course, sweetheart.” Maglor kissed the top of her head as he finished braiding her hair. “We’re right across the hall. You can always come find me if you’re scared, or even if you just don’t want to be alone. Do you want a story before you go to sleep?”

“Yes, please!”

Maglor did not see any of Daeron’s family until the next morning; they had not returned home until well after he and Daeron had gone to bed themselves. At breakfast Mablung and his parents greeted all three of them cheerfully, though Daeron immediately dragged Mablung away to berate him in private. “If Daeron lets poor Mablung get a word in edgewise,” Lacheryn laughed as she poured tea for Maglor and Calissë, “he’ll learn that Mablung did write to him of his siblings—only the letter never got sent because he thought Beleg had taken it and Beleg thought Mablung had, and it wasn’t found until last week under a sofa. And we didn’t bother to write ourselves because we thought Daeron was here in Taur-en-Gellam until Mablung wrote to us to say he’d already passed on the news—and I hate writing, anyway, which drives Daeron to distraction.”

“Why not mention them in his first letter?” Maglor asked.

“Oh, he didn’t know. He left too soon after we found Aldalëo—called back here by Thingol for something, I cannot remember what—and I’m afraid that first meeting was taken up by arguments over what was or was not done and what we all thought should have been done—the Great Journey was a source of strife from its first proposal, so it isn’t so surprising, even if it is rather late.”

“Did you not wish to come west?” Maglor asked.

“I did not wish to be parted from my brother,” Lacheryn said with a rueful smile. “And then it seemed—well, there were signs that pointed to a worse fate than what seems to have truly befallen both Aldalëo and Escelírë, and I am very glad that we were wrong, but there seemed no point in coming here to await those who would likely never join us, especially not with Thingol lost, and Elmo so certain that he would be found. Still, it wasn’t as easy a choice as it might seem from the outside. Oh, but speaking of brothers—” Lacheryn broke off and shook her head when Daeron’s voice rose in surprise in the other room. “Simpalírë is here with us,” she finished.

“Are Daeron’s parents or sisters going to visit this winter?”

“Perhaps. Escelírë almost certainly will, but I doubt Netyalossë or Vinyelírë will come; they’re busy with families of their own—and Vinyelírë is expecting again.”

“Honestly, is it so hard to just tell me things?” Daeron said as he returned to the kitchen, Simpalírë and Mablung in tow. “Am I going to find an extra third-cousin-twice-removed under my bed later this evening, Aunt Lacheryn?”

“Not unless Mablung has been keeping some very big secrets,” said Lacheryn, as Calissë giggled. “Good morning, Simpalírë. Don’t mind your brother; he’s always particularly dramatic before breakfast.”

“Just like Netyalossë,” Simpalírë said, and Daeron made a face. “Good morning, Macalaurë.”

“Good morning,” Maglor said, and introduced Calissë. Simpalírë looked quite startled to discover that Maglor had a niece, but he recovered quickly, and Calissë was fascinated to learn that Daeron had a brother and sisters of his own—and a niece, too, with a name very similar to her own: Calindë was Netyalossë’s daughter, and only a handful of years older than Calissë herself. Breakfast was a calmer affair than it was at Nerdanel’s house, and quieter than a place like Imloth Ningloron, though still full of chatter and laughter and exchanging of news and gossip. Afterward, Maglor had nothing to do but await Thingol’s pleasure—and Olwë’s, and Ingwë’s, he learned from a stray comment of Mablung’s.

“When did Ingwë arrive?” Daeron asked, also startled.

“The day before yesterday,” said Belthond, “so you cannot get annoyed with us for not warning you.”

“I wouldn’t be annoyed with you, Uncle!” Daeron protested. “Only Mablung!” Mablung reached over to yank on his braid, making Daeron yelp and Calissë giggle.

After breakfast Lacheryn took Calissë upstairs to find something to wear that would be suitable for meeting three Elvenkings. Maglor went to change into the clothes he’d worn when he had first gone to the palace in Tirion—the black tunic that Arwen had made and embroidered, and the shirt and pants that matched it best. Daeron followed after a little while to change his own clothes. “Does it change anything that Ingwë is here too?” he asked.

“Well, it means I don’t have to make the trip to Valmar,” said Maglor. “I’m not terribly nervous about meeting him—he isn't a stranger.”

“No, only the High King of all the Eldar.”

“At least before the Darkening that was more of a courtesy than anything,” Maglor said. “I suppose he had the authority, but he never tried to wield it, or to overrule Finwë or Olwë. Mostly he was just my grandfather’s dear friend, and Indis’ brother. How little can I get away with here in the way of jewelry?”

Daeron laughed. “You got away with far less than the Noldor usually wear in Tirion,” he said. “Here, let me.” He swiftly wove a handful of slender braids back from Maglor’s temples, and then wove them together into a single braid secured with a silver clasp; then he went to pull out the jewelry box that Maglor had tossed into his bag without much thought when packing to leave Imloth Ningloron. “Have you any circlets in here? Ah, this one is nice.” He drew out a silver one that he carefully secured amongst the braids. “Very handsome.” Maglor made a face so that Daeron would laugh. “You can get away with an awful lot in the way of personal style, though, if you’re known to be a bit eccentric. That’s what I do. No one will pay much mind if you eschew gems and circlets outside of formal occasions after today.”

“There’s eccentric and then there’s whatever my reputation is. There’s a necklace in there that goes well with this tunic—silver and white gold. Yes, that one.”

“No bracelets or arm bands?” Daeron asked as he looked through the jewelry box.

“I’m not very fond of them, and there’s no point when I always wear long sleeves.”

“Very few rings, either.”

“I can really only wear them on my left hand.” The scar tissue on the fingers of his right hand wasn’t thick enough to hinder him, but it sometimes made wearing rings uncomfortable—and Maglor had never liked to wear many rings anyway, especially when he played music, so it was no real loss. “Will someone come to fetch us to Thingol, or…?”

“He’ll be holding court this afternoon, so unless he wishes to meet you beforehand, we’ll go and be announced, and everyone will stare and be utterly charmed by Calissë, and then the king will get on with the rest of the day’s business, and that will be that. We’ll have to dine with the court tonight, and you’ll be given a seat at the high table as a guest of honor, especially with Ingwë and Olwë here—you being a member of the Noldorin royal family.”

Maglor made another face. “What about you?”

“Me, seated with all the kings and princes?” Daeron laughed. “I’m high in Thingol’s favor but not that high! Don’t worry—I’ll be close by. Here, this ring is nice—wear this. You need to look suitably Noldorin at least for today.”

They returned downstairs after Daeron dressed, and found Mablung in the large and bright parlor with another guest—one Maglor at first mistook for Celeborn. Of course it was not Celeborn, who was off with Galadriel and her family welcoming Aegnor back—it was Galathil. He was also dressed for court, resplendent with his silver hair wound through with pearls, in fine robes of soft purple and blue. Mablung exchanged a glance with Daeron and then excused himself.

Maglor had not even tried to rehearse what he might say to Galathil when they met. “My lord,” he said now, and stepped forward to kneel before Galathil.

“Prince Maglor,” Galathil said, and stepped forward in his turn to take Maglor’s hands and raise him to his feet. “There is no need for this. I have not come here to make any demands of you.”

“You would be well within your rights,” Maglor said. He met Galathil’s gaze, finding pale green eyes not unlike Celebrían’s. He did not remember how or when they had come face to face in the caves of Menegroth—it had been all chaos and smoke, and nearly everyone had worn a helm or something else that obscured their features.

“But it would serve no purpose,” said Galathil. He had not released Maglor’s right hand, and turned it palm up to reveal the scars. “You were punished enough, I think—more than enough, when I remember all that my brother has told me.”

“I am sorry,” Maglor said quietly. It wasn’t enough, but it was all he had to offer, especially if Galathil refused to ask anything else of him.

“And I forgive you.” Galathil smiled, looking even more like Celebrían, speaking as though it really could be just that simple. “Neither of us wanted to be there, when last we came face to face. Now we can put it all behind us where it belongs, and move forward—I would like to do so in friendship, not least for my brother’s sake, and my grandchildren’s.”

Whatever Maglor had expected, it wasn’t this—not anything like friendship. He understood very well, suddenly, why Celegorm always looked so startled when Dior’s name was spoken, and he wondered if this was where Dior had gotten his own ideas. “I would like that,” he said, but the words came out sounding uncertain. Galathil’s smile grew a little, and he laughed.

Calissë came running into the room then, having escaped Lacheryn and Mablung, to show Maglor her dress and the amber beads that Lacheryn had braided into her hair. Daeron stepped forward to introduce her to Galathil, who laughed. “Did your brothers all come with you as well?” he asked Maglor.

“No, only my niece,” Maglor said. “She had a taste of travel last year and wished for more, and who am I to say no?”

“I hope her parents also said yes,” Galathil said.

Daeron laughed. “Of course they did! Neither I nor Maglor are foolish enough to risk Rundamírë’s wrath.”

“Uncle Cáno doesn’t want to get dragged back to Tirion by his ears,” added Calissë.

Galathil walked with them to the palace, a sprawling building built partially in the trees and partially on the ground. The large hall where Thingol was holding court was bright and colorful, with tapestries and hangings along the walls, and filled with lords and ladies in butterfly-bright robes and gowns and glittering with gems and jewelry. Daeron’s return was greeted with surprise and delight. Maglor and Calissë’s welcome was warm as they bowed before Thingol and Melian—and it was also just one event among many other matters that were to be dealt with that day. Maglor was aware of eyes on him as he stepped back into the crowd beside Daeron, and he knew it also did not go unnoticed that he had arrived in Galathil’s company, or that Galathil engaged him in conversation afterward. Both Olwë and Ingwë also stepped over to greet him, and to be introduced to Calissë. Ingwë bowed over her hand, rendering her unusually shy, and as he straightened she clutched at Maglor’s leg.

Though he was not a new arrival, however, Simpalírë was of much greater interest to Thingol’s court even than Maglor. He was Daeron’s brother—and even better, Daeron himself had returned, and all the gossipers could now see them together and make comparisons and speculations. So Daeron muttered in Maglor’s ear. “Oh no,” Maglor said, laughing a little, “you’ll have to get along with your brother in public. How awful for you.”

“Oh, stop it. Simpalírë and I get along fine. I don’t like being whispered about and watched, that’s all.”

“You should stop whispering to me, then,” Maglor said, though he made no move to move away himself. “I can see five different people watching us.”

“I would hope they got all their gossiping about us over with years ago,” Daeron said.

“They haven’t seen us together before.” Maglor would have expected to feel anxious about it himself, but his time in Tirion seemed to have helped more than he had expected. So many eyes on him made him itch under his skin, but it wasn’t so bad that he couldn’t ignore it. When Calissë got restless he picked her up so she could whisper questions to both him and Daeron, which Daeron answered in such a way as to keep her giggling. Simpalírë soon joined them, and he was far less practiced at keeping a straight face in such company, which Daeron took full advantage of while keeping his own expression entirely serious, describing all the various lords and ladies with increasing ridiculousness until Simpalírë’s face had gone pink with the effort of trying not to laugh.

Daeron was called forth after a while to help solve some dispute, and Simpalírë stepped a little closer to Maglor. “I feel rather as though I’ve met five different people in one person, in my brother,” he said, watching Daeron step forward to bow to Thingol and listen to the question posed to him. “And here he is stepping into yet another role. I cannot tell which ones are real and which are false.”

Maglor shifted Calissë’s weight on his hip. “We all play roles, depending on where we are and who we are with,” he said, aware that she was listening. “They’re all real enough—just different facets of the same jewel.”

“Mm. Perhaps.”

“Why didn’t you know Daeron before?” Calissë asked Simpalírë, “if you’re brothers?”

“Daeron did not cross the Sea when our parents did,” Simpalírë said after glancing at Maglor, “and I was born on these shores.”

“Daeron lingered in Middle-earth as long as I did,” said Maglor. “There were many families sundered in such a way during the Great Journey.”

“Oh.” Calissë considered this, nose wrinkling as she frowned. “That’s sad,” she said finally. “I would hate to grow up not knowing Náriel or Tyelpë.”

“I’ve wished all my life that I knew my older brother,” said Simpalírë. His smile was still identical to Daeron’s—rueful this time, and little crooked. It was the smile Daeron wore sometimes when speaking of the past. “I’m very glad now to finally have the chance.”

Mablung came by then to ask if Calissë would like to see some other parts of the palace, since mingling among all the adults must be terribly boring. Calissë was thrilled, and Maglor was glad to escape small ears for a little while. Once Mablung and Calissë had gone he turned to Simpalírë and said, “Please give Daeron time. He did not expect to find any of you when or how he did—I think he never expected to reunite with your parents at all.”

“My uncle said the same,” said Simpalírë. “I think Daeron clashes with Netyalossë just because she’s used to bossing us around, Vinyelírë and me, and she can’t do that to him.”

“He feels as though there are expectations laid upon him that he cannot meet,” Maglor said, keeping his voice quiet.

“None of us mean to make him feel that way,” said Simpalírë, “but it is true that my parents are not happy that he wasn’t brought west when there was a chance for it. Both of them lost almost their entire families to the Dark Rider, long ago—Atya only had Aunt Lacheryn, and I think they argued a great deal before she relented and agreed to leave Cuiviénen at all. They only feel that they were right all along, having heard all the stories of what happened in the east. It isn’t that they had any particular expectation of Daeron, it’s that they cannot understand the wish to remain there—and that colors everything else.”

“Have you told Daeron this?”

“Not yet. We haven’t had a chance to speak much alone—but that’s why I’m here. We at least have something in common, Daeron and I. I think we can learn to get along better than he and our sisters, anyway.”

“He does want that,” Maglor said.

“And I know Netyalossë was making a nuisance of herself to you too. I’m sorry—for her and for our parents. I don’t know why they are so surprised that he’s as stubborn as he is. As though our mother isn’t equally hard-headed, or Netyalossë.”

“I understand why they feel the way they do about me,” Maglor said, “and I never expected anything else. I just don’t know what to do about it, aside from go away—which I won’t do.”

“Of course not,” said Simpalírë. “And for what it’s worth, I don’t know where Netyalossë got her ideas about how you were in Valmar. Everyone knew you had about as much interest in romance as a rock.” Maglor laughed. “She must have overheard something and misunderstood; many of my friends in Alqualondë had questions about everyone I met in Valmar, especially Prince Fëanáro’s son, and I’m sure I made many jokes at your expense.”

“Oh, I don’t mind you telling tales or making jokes,” said Maglor. “But who I was then is not who I am now.”

“No,” Simpalírë agreed, “and I did point that out. They’ll come around eventually. What happened—well, it was a long time ago, and everyone directly involved has agreed to move on, so the rest of us should do so too. I would rather be friends than hold onto old grudges.”

Daeron rejoined them then. “I think we can make our escape now,” he said, slipping his hand into Maglor’s. “Where is Calissë?”

“Off exploring with Mablung.”

“Oh, good. Come on then—we can do some exploring of our own, and I can show you both all the best parts of the city.” Daeron grabbed Simpalírë’s hand next, and led them both out of the hall. “The library is that way,” he said, nodding toward a corridor just outside the large gathering hall. “It isn't as impressive as the on in Tirion yet—or, I’m sure, the ones in Alqualondë or Valmar—but we’re working on it.”

“Alqualondë has no great library,” Simpalírë said. “Few of us write much down, except for lists and inventories and things when needed. There are plenty who have never bothered to learn to read or write at all.”

“Doriath was much the same,” said Daeron, “and we learned to our sorrow what a mistake that was. Not that any such tragedies are likely to happen again, of course, but—and perhaps I am biased as well—it is still a great comfort to have things written down.”

“I don’t remember any large libraries in Valmar, either,” said Maglor, “but that was long ago.”

“There are a few smaller ones, but nothing like the collections in Tirion,” said Simpalírë. “It’s the Noldor that have always wanted to write everything down.”

“Even the Noldor can be right about some things,” Daeron said, flashing a grin at Maglor, who laughed. “But we can look at the library later. I want to introduce you both to my students first of all.”

They found many of Daeron’s students gathered in one of the meadows, where lingering wildflowers bloomed as the wood began its slow fading from summer into autumn. There were a dozen children among the older figures, and they saw Daeron first and came racing over to cluster around him, all talking excitedly over each other to welcome him back. Daeron laughed as he waded among them, greeting everyone by name, and listening to all they had to tell him about what he had missed, and what they had been doing and learning in his absence. When his older students came to join in Daeron disappeared entirely.

He reappeared after a few minutes and called Simpalírë and Maglor over. “You’ve all heard of Maglor, of course,” he said, “and here is my brother Simpalírë, come to visit from Alqualondë.” Maglor found himself greeted with wide-eyed stares from the children, and warm words of welcome from Daeron’s older students. Simpalírë was received with equal warmth, but more curiosity, for he was someone entirely unforeseen. And then Daeron told them of meeting Elemmírë, and the chance to perform before all the Eldar in Aman at the great gathering being planned, and Maglor and Simpalírë were entirely forgotten in that excitement.

“What is Elemmírë planning?” Simpalírë asked Maglor as they sat down in the grass at a slight remove from the throng of Daeron’s students.

“She wants to sing the whole of our history, from Cuiviénen to the present,” said Maglor. “It’s very ambitious. Daeron has promised to seek out the Avari living here in Valinor, to ask them to join in as well.”

“Why Daeron?” Simpalírë asked.

“He spent many years in the east among the Avari of Middle-earth,” Maglor said, keeping his tone light but aware that he was treading on potentially fragile ground. “He made many friends among them and knows their tongues. It might be that some he knew in Middle-earth have also made their way here, though I think he does not expect it.”

“I doubt he is the only one to have friends among them. They keep to the west mostly, or so I’ve heard, but they do keep themselves entirely separate.”

“No, of course not,” said Maglor, “but Elemmírë has asked both Daeron and me to help her organize this performance, and that is why she asked him. I’m sure others have already gone to tell them about the feast itself. I haven’t gone recruiting yet among the Noldor, but I have little doubt of finding plenty of volunteers, and I’ve spoken to Gimli about it too.”

“Who?”

“Gimli—the dwarf who was part of the Fellowship of the Ring. He is staying now in Imloth Ningloron with Legolas.”

“Oh! I’d heard of their coming.” Simpalírë shook his head, smiling. “They caused a great stir when they arrived.”

“I can imagine.”

“How do you know them?”

“I lived in Rivendell until I came west,” Maglor said, “and was there when the Fellowship formed. Afterward I traveled often to Gondor—and Rohan, where Gimli dwelled in the Glittering Caves, and a few times to Mirkwood. Well, the Greenwood again now, since all the shadows and fell creatures have been driven out. I knew all of the Fellowship. I only took ship after Aragorn’s death—King Elessar, I mean.”

“I’ve heard the tales,” Simpalírë said. “I do not remember hearing your name in them.”

“No, I dropped out of all such tales after the First Age. I played no part in the events of the War of the Ring, except as witness at the beginning and the end.”

Simpalírë looked at him. It was very strange, how alike he was to Daeron and yet so very different. Daeron had starlight shining in his eyes; Simpalírë’s held Treelight instead. “You really are very different from what I remember,” he said.

“Yes, I am.”

Daeron called to Maglor then with a question about one of Bilbo’s songs. They passed the rest of the afternoon with Daeron’s students; Mablung brought Calissë after a while, and she was welcomed among the younger ones with delight on both sides at making new friends.

As evening drew on they had to leave Daeron’s students to prepare to dine that night with Thingol's court. Maglor pulled on some robes and let Daeron weave emeralds through his hair. Daeron himself wore again his amethysts and pearls. “I noticed you speaking to my brother today,” he said as he ran the comb through Maglor’s hair. “He didn’t say anything foolish, did he?”

“No. I think you’ll find it much easier to speak to him—alone, away from your sisters and parents. And not just about music.” Maglor turned to look at Daeron. “He has no expectations of you.”

Daeron offered a small, rueful smile before tugging on Maglor’s hair so he turned around again. “Maybe,” he said, “and I have not made myself very likable either—I know that. I’m as much at fault for how it’s all going as they are.”

“It’s unfamiliar ground for all you to be treading,” Maglor said.

“Except I have been refusing to tread it at all. It’s awful, really, to know what you’re doing wrong and not quite be able to stop yourself.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“I don’t know.”

After Daeron finished with his hair, Maglor turned and found him with overly bright eyes and his lips pressed together in a tight line. “Come here.” Maglor opened his arms and Daeron all but fell into them. “Are you sure we cannot skip this feast tonight?”

“No, we can’t,” Daeron said into his chest. “I’ll be fine.”

“Will you?”

“I’ve smiled my way through worse. We’ll go and eat and drink and be quite merry, and afterward I’ll sing some songs, and then we can slip away.”

“Are you sure?” Maglor asked.

“Yes.” Daeron straightened, dry-eyed and able to put on a smile that Maglor thought most people would really believe was genuine. He could tell, though, that the falseness of it was a brittle thing. “You don’t need to worry about me, Maglor.”

“I think I do,” Maglor said softly.

“No.” Daeron shook his head, and then leaned forward to kiss Maglor. “Not tonight. I’m fine. I’m just—I’m being ridiculous.”

“Daeron—”

“Come on. We’ll be late if we don’t get going.” Daeron grabbed Maglor’s hand and pulled him out of the room and downstairs to join Mablung and Simpalírë.

As Daeron had predicted, Maglor was led to a seat at the high table in the great dining hall, and seated in between Thingol and Ingwë. It was not as nerve wracking as it might have been if Thingol’s court had not already had a chance to look at him earlier that afternoon. Both kings greeted him kindly and asked after his travels and his family. Maglor could see Daeron seated at a nearby table, though he was far enough away that they could do no more than exchange the occasional glance—and even those were further limited as the kings on either side of him continuously engaged Maglor in conversation.

“My sister has told me of this song she and Míriel have asked you to write,” Ingwë remarked sometime during the second course. “From what she has told me, you have been hard at work on it for the last year. Is it going well?”

“I think so,” said Maglor. “I would like to speak to you of your journey—the one the three of you took here, before the Great Journey.”

“Yes, of course.” Ingwë smiled at him. “We can tell you a little more of his youth too, by Cuiviénen. I can speak very little of his doings on the Great Journey itself, since my people traveled more quickly than did the Noldor.”

“I can tell you a little more of that,” said Thingol on Maglor’s other side. “But there is no great hurry, is there? You will be here through the winter.”

“There isn’t,” Maglor said. “I hope to have this song finished before your great feast, Lord Ingwë, but that is a deadline of my own creation.”

“I hope you do finish by then,” said Ingwë, “so that we may all hear it. I’ve heard some of Elemmírë’s plans—she is quite ambitious.”

“The whole thing is ambitious,” said Maglor, forgetting for a moment who he spoke to. He bit his tongue, but Ingwë only laughed and agreed. “May I ask why now?”

“Many reasons,” said Ingwë, “though mostly it is that the timing seems right—of all who I wish most to have there, only Finwë is missing, and that cannot be helped. Elwë is returned to us, and Nowë too has finally come west. Not to mention Daeron and yourself. We have all split ourselves into so many different groups that I fear it has become all to easy to forget that we are all Quendi—we were once one people, and we could be so again, however sundered our tongues and customs might have become, whatever feuds and disputes and sorrows lay in our past. Elemmírë’s plan to sing through the whole of our history is just the sort of thing to remind us all of that. If your father, Macalaurë, can return from Mandos and make peace with his brothers, than I have great hope that all the Eldar in Aman, even those counted as Avari who came here by way of Mandos only because they had no other choice, can come together in peace and friendship again as well.”

It was a beautiful vision. Maglor had been thinking of the coming feast as only a deadline for his song, and as the gathering of a larger audience than he had ever dreamed of performing for, but of course it was so much bigger than that. He glanced toward Daeron and found him laughing at something Simpalírë said. Thingol followed his gaze, but did not remark on it.

After the meal was done Daeron was called forth to perform for them, many voices calling out that it had been far too long. He obliged with a bright smile, and Maglor couldn’t tell from a distance whether he was still feigning his cheer. However he was feeling, his music was beautiful, breathtaking and enchanting. Maglor closed his eyes, basking in it. He sang many songs that seemed to be favorites among the Sindar, of starlight and woodland flowers, of Doriath and of wider Beleriand, of rivers and mountains and the Sea. When he had finished others came forward to sing and make music, many of them Daeron’s students. Theirs was music meant for dancing, and a space cleared swiftly in the middle of the hall for it.

“Are you ready to go?” Daeron asked, slipping up behind Maglor to wrap his arms around his waist, resting his chin on Maglor’s shoulder.

“Whenever you are,” Maglor said. “That was wonderful.”

Daeron smiled at him. “Thank you. Let’s just take leave of Thingol and Melian.”

At home they found Calissë already asleep in bed, curled up with Pídhres. In Daeron’s room they shed their finery and slipped under the blankets, cocooned in warm darkness. Maglor raised up onto an elbow, smoothing Daeron’s hair from his face with his other hand. “How are you really?” he asked softly.

Daeron shrugged, no longer putting on a smile. “Tired. Dinner was—it was fine. I can get along with anybody in public, when we don’t have to talk about anything serious.”

“You can’t run away from it forever.”

“I bet I could.”

“Daeron.”

“No, I know.” Daeron rolled forward to tuck himself against Maglor’s chest. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me. I know what it’s like to be scared. It’s—it’s like what we spoke of before, on our way to Ekkaia, isn’t it? You can’t stop mourning the family you never knew just because the real thing is in front of you now.”

Daeron was silent for some time. Then he said, “I hadn’t thought of it like that. I hadn’t thought I was mourning them.”

“You can mourn what you never had, what was stolen from you,” said Maglor as he stroked his hair, “even if you can’t really mourn the people you never knew. It’s such a part of you that maybe you just stopped noticing—it has been all your life, and it probably always will be.”

“Then the reverse must be true,” Daeron said, “that they will never stop mourning who I might have been.”

“Yes,” said Maglor, “but isn’t it also true that our grief does not have to rule us?”

“It is. And…anything is easier when you know what the problem really is. I look at them all and see what I might have been a part of if things had been different, and…” Daeron lifted his head and pressed a kiss to Maglor’s cheek. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“I love you,” Maglor said softly. “I want to see you happy.”

“I am happy—outside of this one thing—”

“It’s a very big thing, Daeron.” Maglor kissed him. “You don’t have to pretend for me.”

“I know,” Daeron whispered. “I’m not trying to. I am happy, and I’m excited for the future, I truly am—for this upcoming feast, for the songs we’ll write together, and watching my students grow and do incredible things, and—all of that should outweigh this ridiculous—”

“Stop calling it ridiculous.”

“It feels ridiculous. They’re still practically strangers,” Daeron said, “and I am—I’m unused to caring what strangers think of me. I hate it, and I hate that the Great Journey is still such a point of contention. I should not have to justify myself to anyone, not now.”

“I agree,” Maglor said. “They should not be asking you to justify yourself. I don’t think that’s what Simpalírë is here to do. I think he just wants to know his brother. And…speaking as a younger brother, I think it would hurt him very deeply if you turned your back before giving him a chance, on his own and away from meddlesome parents or sisters.”

“I don’t want to do that,” Daeron whispered.

“I know. And I do think you and he have a chance to really be brothers, if you’ll just let yourself. It will take time, but it will be worth it.”

“I’ll speak to him tomorrow. Seriously, with no false cheer. I promise.”

The door opened then, and Calissë, sounding sleepy and faintly upset, said, “Uncle Cáno?”

“We’re here, sweetheart.” Maglor rolled over to grab a nightshirt before anyone could turn on a light to reveal the scars he didn’t want his niece to see. “Did you have a bad dream?”

“No, I just woke up and it’s—the shadows are all scary.”

“Come here, then, and we’ll protect you from all the frightening shadows,” said Daeron. He turned on a lamp once Maglor’s chest was hidden, and Calissë darted forward to climb onto the bed and burrow into the blankets between them. Pídhres followed, curling up on the pillows above Calissë’s head. Once she was tucked in Daeron turned out the light, and Maglor sang a lullaby, one he’d written long ago when Curufin had been born. He put just enough power into his voice to catch both Calissë and Daeron in it; Daeron gave him a knowing look even as his eyelids drooped, and it wasn’t long before they both fell deeply and peacefully asleep. Maglor scratched Pídhres behind the ears, and settled down himself. He let his thoughts circle as he listened to Pídhres purr, passing between his songwriting and Daeron and the events of the day until sleep finally caught up, bringing dreams of empty seashores and distant voices on the wind.