A Hundred Miles Through the Desert - Chapter Forty Three

[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

 

In the time it took for Maglor’s letter to reach Maedhros in Avallónë, and for Maedhros’ reply to come back to Taur-en-Gellam—accompanied by a sketch of Elrond and his sons, which should have done more to cheer Maglor up than it did; instead he just missed them so much it hurt—Maglor did not see Daeron. If Daeron returned home at all in that time, it was when Maglor wasn’t there or late enough that Maglor was asleep—or at least in bed. He didn’t sleep much, just curled up with Pídhres and watched snow flurries whirl by outside of the window and worried.

No one asked if he and Daeron had fought—that much was obvious—but at least Lacheryn and Belthond continued to be kind, and no one seemed to think Maglor was at fault. Beleg had made fast friends with Calissë, and took charge of her most of those days, going out to meet with her other new friends and to explore the winter woods. She came back in the evenings happy but exhausted, only wanting to curl up on Maglor’s lap by the fire while Belthond or Mablung or Beleg told stories. Maglor spent his days keeping out of everyone’s way, trying to work but not really managing to get much done. The words just seemed to stare at him from the pages, incoherent and mocking, and all he really accomplished was giving himself a headache.

One morning, the day after Maedhros’ letter had arrived with a few pointed questions that revealed just how badly Maglor had failed to project an air of cheerfulness in his own writing, he woke to hear raised voices, and came downstairs just in time to hear the front door close and to see Simpalírë retreating to his own room, red-faced and scowling. In the kitchen Lacheryn sighed, and poured a cup of tea. “Daeron just needs a little more time, I think,” she said as she held it out to Maglor. “Usually when he’s angry or upset he’ll go write songs until his fingers cramp around his pen; I think that’s what he’s been doing this time too—though I don’t think I have ever seen him quite this upset.”

“I don’t think he has been sleeping,” Maglor said after a moment.

“Likely not,” Lacheryn agreed. “And that will make it all worse.”

“Should I go somewhere else, so if he wants his own bed—”

“Absolutely not!” Lacheryn said firmly. “You stay right where you are. He’s not angry with you, not really, and none of this is your fault.”

“I know, but—”

“Do you?” Lacheryn looked at him, her dark eyes kind but very keen. “I can’t say that Daeron has never lashed out at others when he’s gotten angry or afraid, but it is a very rare thing these days, and perhaps that means there is more weight behind it now. Thank you for not rising to it, but I am sorry you’re now in such an uncomfortable spot. Do you want to go somewhere else for a little while? There are plenty of rooms in the palace if you want your own space.”

“No,” Maglor admitted after a moment, without raising his eyes from his tea, watching the steam curl gently up from it. “I don’t want to worry Calissë.”

“She’s noticed that something is amiss, of course,” said Lacheryn. Of course she had. She was Curufin’s daughter, with his keen eyes and keener mind, however distracted Mablung and Beleg were keeping her—and of course she would be missing Daeron too. “I don’t think you need to worry about her. She’s having too much fun with my son and her new friends to spare too much thought for the woes of the adults around her. Are you all right, Maglor? Daeron has a sharp tongue, and if he has let his self-control slip—”

“No, nothing like that happened.” Maglor had also learned very early just what kind of damage his voice or his words could do if he wasn’t careful; however upset Daeron had been, there had been no power behind his words, and no damage had been done besides hurt feelings. It was his absence that bothered Maglor, far more than anything he’d actually said. “I’m just worried.”

“Would you like a little bit of advice?”

“Please,” he said, and hated how small his voice sounded.

“Don’t hide yourself away today,” Lacheryn said. “Don’t go to the library or back upstairs to your room. Daeron will come back eventually, and I think it would be good for both of you if he saw you waiting for him.”

It was the opposite of what Maglor was inclined to do—which was to keep out of the way until Daeron came looking on purpose, not hiding but not trying to force a meeting that might turn into another confrontation—but Lacheryn knew far better than he how Daeron’s mind worked when he was this upset. So Maglor fetched his harp and a book and curled up by the hearth in the parlor, within sight of the front door. He hadn’t been able to get properly warm in days; that day was no different, and he couldn’t focus on either his book or any music he attempted to play. Calissë then appeared and demanded a harp lesson midway through the morning, which did help him to think about something other than all the worries and fears swirling in his head. He heard the door open as he guided Calissë’s fingers over the strings, but didn’t allow himself to look up or get distracted.

He taught Calissë a relatively simple melody that day, but one that was used for many different songs. “The hobbits say it’s as old as the hills in the Shire,” he told her, “and they make up new words for it all the time.”

“Can I make up words too?”

“Of course you can, but how about first I teach you some of Bilbo’s?”

Calissë looked up then, and her face brightened. “Daeron, listen to the song I just learned!”

“I heard it,” Daeron said, offering her a small smile. He leaned against the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest, with ink-stained fingers and bloodshot eyes; it looked like he had been there for a while, watching them. “When you’re done, Maglor…” He hesitated, then tilted his head toward the stairs.

“All right,” Maglor said quietly. “Are you—”

“It can wait.” Daeron left, heading upstairs.

“You can teach me Bilbo’s songs later, Uncle Cáno,” said Calissë. “I’ll just practice right now, and then Mistress Lacheryn and I are going to finish my new gown for Midwinter.”

Maglor kissed her temple. “That sounds lovely. Do me one favor before you go to bed tonight, though.”

“What’s that?”

“Write to your parents.”

“Oh, but writing is boring!”

“But they miss you and want to hear from you. Don’t you want to tell them all about the music you’re learning, and your friends, and about your new gown?”

Calissë grumbled, but agreed, and Maglor kissed her again before getting up. As he did Pídhres jumped onto the sofa beside her to curl up into a small and soft grey ball.

Upstairs, Daeron’s room was dark; no lamps had been lit, and at first glance Maglor thought he had misunderstood and Daeron wasn’t there. Then he looked to the corner where Daeron had set a deep and cozy chair, perfect for reading or playing music, and found him curled up in it, looking out of the window, apparently lost in thought as he turned something over in his fingers. “Daeron?” Maglor said quietly, shutting the door behind him and leaning back against it.

“I received a letter from Maedhros yesterday,” Daeron said after a moment. His voice was rough around the edges, like he hadn’t slept in some time. “He sounded rather worried.”

“I wrote to him,” Maglor said, “but I didn’t mean to—”

“No, I know.” Daeron dropped his gaze to whatever it was he held in his hands. “I’m sorry. I haven’t—I’ve been awful, and I know it. There’s no excuse, and you don’t deserve it. I’m sorry.”

Maglor didn’t move. The door was solid against his back, and he let it hold a little more of his weight as he said, “You know I love you, Daeron. If you need time, or space—whatever you need, I’ll give it to you. What I won’t do, is be the weapon you use to hurt yourself.” He saw Daeron wince, curling into himself a little tighter. “Do you want me to leave? I can stay somewhere in the—”

“No!” Daeron looked up then, but his hair fell forward and it was hard to see his face in the shadows of the room. Whatever anger he had been feeling before had run its course, though, and now he just seemed—well, exhausted, with a tremor in his voice and shaking hands. “No, please don’t leave. I didn’t—I don’t want—”

“All right, I won’t.” Maglor crossed the room to kneel before the chair. Up close he could see that the object Daeron was clutching in his hand was the pendant Maglor had made for him. Maglor covered Daeron’s hands with his own.

“I’m sorry,” Daeron whispered. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“What do you need?” Maglor asked.

“I don’t—I’m getting it all wrong, just like I got it wrong when Beren came to Neldoreth, and I don’t know how not to, and now I’ve ruined our—”

“You haven’t ruined anything,” Maglor said. “I’m right here. What do you need, love?”

“I don’t—I don’t know. To be someone different, maybe, someone who doesn’t—”

“Daeron.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know. You. I need you.”

“You have me,” Maglor said, “always.” Daeron’s hands were cool under his own, as though he hadn’t warmed up yet after coming in from outside. “When was the last time you slept?”

Daeron made a small noise that was somewhere in between a laugh and a sob. “I don’t know. I think I fell asleep in the library yesterday.”

“When did you last eat something?”

“This morning. I breakfasted with Melian and then she—not scolded—admonished? Very gently, more gently than I deserved really, and…”

“You deserve gentleness, Daeron,” Maglor said. “What did Melian say to you?”

“She told me to come home to you and that things would look far brighter after I had slept,” Daeron said after a moment. “And that my parents will arrive sometime today or maybe tomorrow. Just in time for Midwinter.”

“Surely if you need to skip Midwinter, no one will object,” Maglor said.

“No, but…there will be talk, and I don’t…” Daeron looked away, out of the window. The sky was heavy with clouds, promising snow to come. In the grey light Daeron seemed very pale, almost washed out and ghostly; he had dark circles under his eyes, like bruises. “I can get through Midwinter,” he said after a moment.

“Not if you don’t sleep,” Maglor said. He pulled at Daeron’s limbs until he uncurled them, and then rose up onto his knees to kiss Daeron, who responded by sliding his fingers into Maglor’s hair to try to pull him in even closer.

Then he broke away as his fingers found the hair clip Maglor was wearing, and he tugged it free to look at it. “You’re wearing—”

“Of course I am.” It was the one Daeron had given him, silver set with purple enamel asters. Maglor took the clip and kissed Daeron again.

“But I don’t—”

“Don’t you dare try to tell me what you do or don’t deserve.”

“But—wait, Maglor, wait—” Daeron caught Maglor’s face in his hands. “I love you, and what happened—in Doriath, long ago—what happened then had nothing to do with you. I don’t blame you for any of it. I wasn’t thinking of you at all at the time. What I said to you the other day was cruel and uncalled for and untrue and I am so, so sorry.”

“You’re already forgiven,” Maglor said. “I forgave you before I walked away.”

“Maglor—”

“I love you.” Maglor kissed him, and said it again against his mouth: “I love you. You haven’t ruined anything, I promise. Come to bed.” In reply Daeron slid out of the chair into Maglor’s arms, already pulling at their clothes as he deepened the kiss.

Some time later, as snow began to fall outside, and both of them were spent and tired and finally warm, Maglor ran his fingers through Daeron’s hair. It was still dark in the room, but even in the gloom he thought that Daeron looked better, less fragile, all his limbs gone loose and soft. “Will you tell me what started all this in the first place?” he asked.

“It’s stupid,” Daeron sighed, eyes half-closed. He had his hand on Maglor’s arm, rubbing his thumb over one of the scars there.

“Tell me anyway?”

Daeron didn’t answer right away, not until Maglor started to think he wouldn’t answer at all. But finally he said softly, “From the moment I saw Lúthien with Beren in the woods, all my choices were the wrong ones. I knew even at the time, but I just—I was so afraid. When I saw them it was…has it ever happened to you, that you almost hear a change in the Great Music?”

“No,” Maglor said, “but I don’t think I have witnessed anything like that, or if I have I was not paying attention.”

“If I listen…sometimes I can hear something of what is to come, or gain some understanding of what is happening,” Daeron said, “but I didn’t stop to try, then. I just knew that something was happening, something big and something terrifying. I went straight to Thingol, when I should have gone to Lúthien instead. And later…I felt it again, when she told me of her plans to leave—and clearly I had not learned from my first mistake. I couldn’t think of anything except her making it all the way to Angband and then never being able to get out.”

“Of course you were afraid,” Maglor said softly. He knew that fear. He knew what it was to have it come true. “Surely you did not expect Thingol to set a Silmaril as Lúthien’s bride price.”

“No, of course not. And—he only did it so Beren would never come back. I don’t think he ever expected him to succeed. It was still foolish—it was yet another thing that happened that I could feel change something in Doriath, though I can’t really describe what it was that changed or how I knew. It was like hearing a discordant note in a song, maybe. But that’s not what—it was still me that set it all in motion, and from that moment nothing I did was right, not until the Girdle spit me out east of Region and I decided not to try to return.”

“That isn’t what’s happening now,” Maglor said.

“Isn’t it?” Daeron opened his eyes. “You said yourself after that first meeting in Alqualondë—”

“There is a space in between opening yourself entirely to strangers and in holding yourself so much apart that you make it impossible for yourself to be known. I thought you had found that space with Simpalírë, at least.”

“I thought so too,” Daeron said, “but then he asked—and it’s not his fault. I just…”

“Could you tell him what you just told me?”

“No,” Daeron said. “Or—I could, maybe, but I don’t want to share it with anyone else, and I cannot ask him to keep secrets for me, and—I can’t bear the thought of Netyalossë hearing about it. And I know that I’m being unfair, especially to her—that it’s no small thing for her to find herself suddenly having an older brother, any more than it is for me to suddenly be one. I should offer them all more grace than I am.”

Maglor raised himself up onto an elbow, resting his hand on Daeron’s face, tracing his cheekbone with his thumb. “It’s not really anyone’s fault that Mablung’s letter went astray, and you went to Alqualondë unwarned,” he said, “but that doesn’t mean it did no harm. Even so, you were never going to be as prepared as your brother and your sisters, who have known all their lives that you were out there somewhere. I’m not sure they are being particularly gracious if they expect you to take all of this in stride.”

“Maybe both sides are at fault, then,” Daeron said. “Except Simpalírë; he hasn’t asked anything of me except to know me. And maybe Vinyelírë—I think I would like her just as well, except she never came to see me without either our parents or Netyalossë, and I don’t know if Netyalossë is just overbearing or if Vinyelírë is just shy and reserved.” He sighed. “And there I go again…”

“I’m not sure I like Netyalossë much either, if that makes you feel any better.”

“It doesn’t, really.”

“Is there anything that would?”

A small smile touched Daeron’s lips as he reached up to brush his knuckles over Maglor’s cheek. “I already feel better than I did this morning. I should have just talked to you in the first place, instead of trying to pick a fight.” He let his hand fall away, and then raised his head, glancing toward the window. “How long have we been up here? Isn't Calissë waiting—”

“She’s with Lacheryn. I’ll check on her before bedtime to make sure she wrote to Curvo and Rundamírë like I asked, but she’ll be fine otherwise.” Maglor gently pushed Daeron back down onto the pillows. “You need to sleep, as Melian said.”

“I need to talk to Simpalírë.”

“You tried this morning, didn’t you?”

“Well, no. He tried, but I—”

“Try again when you aren’t so exhausted, and maybe it will go better.”

“Maybe.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“I’m not going to like it, am I?”

“Probably not.”

“I probably deserve it,” Daeron sighed. “Ask.”

“We’ve spoken of grief, but…have you let yourself grieve? For any of it?”

“Yes,” Daeron said softly. “I grieved for Lúthien—I mourn her still, but I did…I wept and I screamed at the sky and I sang songs and then I moved on, just like I did for you, and for my aunt and uncle, and Mablung, and everyone else. Long ago. I traveled and learned things and met other people and…the weight never lessened, but I got stronger and it got easier to bear. I don’t know why it all feels so sharp and new again now.”

“But you never did that for your family.”

“I never thought I had to. It never felt…all my life, their absence was just a fact, like how water is wet and fire is hot.”

“You need to let yourself feel it, Daeron,” Maglor said. “If you just ignore it as you have been doing, it will just keep coming back to trip you up. I know because that’s what I did with everything, I pushed it all down so I didn’t have to think about it, until I came here and couldn’t ignore it any longer, and—well, you saw the results. Please don’t do that to yourself.”

“Do you think I need to go to Lórien?” Daeron whispered.

“Not if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t.”

“But Nienna will come to you if you really need her, or if you call for her.” Maglor’s own meeting with Nienna by Ekkaia had left him feeling raw and bruised, but those tears had also taken something out of him with them, like poison had been drawn out of a wound, and after that he had been able to—slowly, clumsily— find his way toward real healing. “At the very least, right now, I think you need to cry yourself to sleep, and then sleep. It won’t fix everything, but it will be a start.”

“It sounds miserable,” Daeron said, “but I suppose it can’t be worse than what I’ve been doing.”

Maglor kissed his forehead and then rolled out of bed, ignoring Daeron’s noise of protest. He fetched one of Daeron’s pipes and returned, settling back against the headboard as Daeron curled up against him. He started to play, as best he could render it, the Music that could be heard in Ekkaia’s Waters, the sorrows and the consolations of the Third Theme of the Great Music. He played very quietly, not wanting the sound of it to escape that room. After a little while he felt Daeron begin to tremble beside him, and then to shake as the tears he had been holding back for weeks finally escaped. After a while Maglor switched to a different song, one he had learned long ago in Valmar—a hymn to Nienna, meant for comfort in the face of heartache.

Eventually, Daeron did cry himself to sleep. Maglor gradually stopped playing, and gently wiped some of the tears from Daeron’s face before slipping out of bed. He dressed and left the room to check on Calissë and to let Lacheryn know that Daeron had returned home and was resting. Instead he nearly ran into Mablung at the top of the stairs.

“Is Daeron here?” Mablung asked.

“Yes. He’s sleeping.”

“Oh good.” A great deal of tension left Mablung’s shoulders as he sighed. Not all of it, though. “Escelírë and Aldalëo have just arrived.”

“I don’t think Daeron is in any state to meet them—not today,” Maglor said.

“At least he has been aware of their coming,” Mablung said, a little wryly and ruefully. “There won’t be any hiding that he quarreled with Simpalírë, but—” Voices floated up from downstairs, and he glanced over his shoulder. Maglor thought they sounded cheerful enough. Then Mablung asked him, “What did you quarrel about? I still don’t even know what upset him in the first place—he wouldn’t tell me, and neither would Simpalírë.”

“It’s hard to call it quarreling when he just wanted to pick a fight and I wouldn’t let him,” Maglor said.

“For no reason? That doesn’t sound like him.”

“Simpalírë had mentioned Lúthien,” Maglor said, and Mablung grimaced. “And if Daeron knew then that his parents were on their way, he might have been on edge already. I don’t think Simpalírë meant anything by it, but—”

“I know. I’ll speak to Simpalírë—I’m sure my parents have already, but they were not there—and I’ll make excuses for Daeron’s absence to Aldalëo and Escelírë.”

“I’ll keep myself scarce too,” said Maglor. “I don’t really want to leave him alone. But where is Calissë?”

“Downstairs, charming my aunt and uncle,” Mablung said with a smile. “I hope you don’t want your harp back today. Don’t worry about her.”

“Just remind her she has to write to her parents tonight, if you would,” Maglor said. “She’ll never do it if she isn’t hounded.”

“I’ll promise her an extra slice of cake if she writes her letter before dinner.”

“Thank you.”

“Maglor,” Mablung said as Maglor started to turn away. When he glanced back Mablung asked, “Are you all right?”

Maglor thought about deflecting, but couldn’t come up with anything Mablung would believe. “I’m tired,” he said, “and I’m still worried about him, but I’ll be all right—we both will.”

“I’m glad he has you,” Mablung said, and retreated back down the stairs.

In their room, Maglor crawled back into bed and curled himself around Daeron, pressing his face into his hair with a sigh. He didn’t quite fall asleep, but he drifted, thoughts circling lazily, just overwhelmingly glad that Daeron was back and that nothing had been broken that couldn’t be repaired.

It was late when Daeron woke, well after Maglor had slipped out again to kiss Calissë goodnight. She was full of excitement about her new dress and the songs that Lacheryn had taught her on the harp that evening—very old songs from the time of the Great Journey, many of which would be sung and danced to at the Midwinter celebrations there in Taur-en-Gellam. “And I did write about it all to Ammë and Atya,” she added as Maglor tucked the blankets around her. “And I wrote to Náriel and Tyelpë too, and I only smudged the ink a little bit.”

“Good,” Maglor said, and kissed her forehead. “I’m sorry I was absent all day, sweetheart. You’ll have to play me those songs tomorrow.”

“And Daeron?”

“Yes, and Daeron too.”

“Are you still mad at each other?”

“No, we aren’t.”

“Good. You shouldn’t go so long without apologizing, Uncle Cáno. Ammë says so—she won’t even let me and Náriel go one whole day without making up when we fight.”

“We weren’t really fighting,” said Maglor. “Daeron just needed to be alone for a while—but your mother is right, of course. The sooner you can make up after a fight, the better.”

“What’s the matter with Daeron?”

“Like I told you, he has been missing Lúthien,” said Maglor. “And, well, sometimes family is complicated.”

“That’s what Atya said when I asked him why you don’t talk to Grandfather.”

“I have spoken to your grandfather,” Maglor said. “I went to see him in Tirion this summer.”

“But you weren’t very happy when we met him after we brought you back from Lórien, and Atya wouldn’t tell me why. Neither would Ammë. They just said it’s complicated, but that’s not a reason.”

Maglor wasn’t sure Curufin would be pleased with him for having this conversation with Calissë, but it wasn’t something that could be put off forever. At least she hadn’t ended up going to Celegorm or Caranthir for an explanation instead; Maglor loved his brothers, but neither of them would be any good at explaining the tangled up threads of their family in a way Calissë would understand—not without telling her either not enough or far too much, and probably in a way that would just upset everyone. “After the Darkening…everyone was very angry, because Finwë was gone, and the Trees were gone, and none of us felt safe anymore. It was your grandfather that urged us all to return to Middle-earth. He wasn’t wrong—I really don’t think we were wrong to go back. But he did lead us into some other things that were very wrong, and things that hurt us—hurt me, and your father, and the rest of our brothers, and many other people. And then we lost him, too, before there was any chance of setting any of it right.”

“But Grandfather wouldn’t hurt anybody,” Calissë protested, but she sounded uncertain. Pídhres jumped up onto her lap, and Calissë hugged her close.

“No, of course not—not now. The Darkening was a very frightening time for all of us, and we all made terrible mistakes. Nothing like that will ever happen again. It’s just that sometimes it’s hard to forgive someone even when they’re truly sorry and doing their best to make it right. I love my father, and I know he loves all of us very much, but I was angry with him for a very long time. Some of your uncles feel the same way, but we’re trying. It’s still true that you should apologize as soon as you can after you do something to hurt someone, or if you fight with them, but we never had a chance for that, and that just makes it all hurt even worse.”

“But what did he do that was so bad?”

“That’s another story for when you’re older, I’m afraid,” Maglor said. Calissë groaned. “I’m sorry, I know it’s frustrating. The important thing, though, is that we all do love one another, even when we’re angry or sad or hurt.”

“Did Daeron’s family also do something bad?”

“No, Daeron’s family is quite different. It was only that he was parted from them when he was very small—much younger than you or Náriel—and now he doesn’t know them and they don’t know him, and none of them know how to talk to one another. That’s not anyone’s fault. It will just take time, and perhaps a lot of arguments, before they figure it out. And now it’s getting late,” Maglor added, and leaned down to kiss her forehead again. “You should be going to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Good night,” Calissë yawned. Pídhres curled up by her, purring gently. “Will you make snow-people with me tomorrow, if it snows a lot like Mablung said it will?”

“Yes, of course.”

Some time later, when the house was very quiet and outside the snow continued to fall, thicker and heavier by the minute, Daeron finally stirred. He sighed and rolled over onto his back. “How long did I sleep?” he murmured.

“All day.”

“Did you sleep?”

“A little.” Maglor waited until Daeron blinked his eyes open. They were still a little swollen, and his face still bore traces of his earlier tears. “How do you feel?”

“Awful. Hollowed out. Hungover.”

“You’ll feel better if you eat something.”

Daeron huffed a quiet laugh as he reached for Maglor. “More wisdom you learned in Lórien?”

“The Shire, actually. Well?”

“Yes, all right.”

The kitchen was quiet and dark, with the rest of the household in bed. Daeron lit a lamp and put water on, and Maglor found the teapot and some mugs. As he leaned against the counter Daeron came over to lean against him, resting his head on Maglor’s shoulder. “Midwinter is only a few days away,” Daeron said after a few minutes. “I still need to wrangle everyone else into rehearsal. Not tomorrow, but the next day. At least I know what you need and what you’ll be performing.”

“I just need my harp and for you to tell me where to stand. Can you wrangle…?”

“Yes. I feel—I don’t know if I feel better, but I feel calmer. At least I won’t snap at any of them when they get irritating.”

“Do you expect anyone to get irritating?”

“Everyone is irritating in rehearsals.” Daeron sighed. “Do you know if my parents arrived?”

“They did, not long after you fell asleep.”

“Oh, good—before the snow got very bad?”

“I think so.”

Daeron leaned more heavily against Maglor. “I can’t believe I’m still so tired.”

“That happens when you go without real sleep for days on end,” Maglor said. He wrapped his arms around Daeron and kissed his temple. “Did you at least get any songs out of it?”

“I don’t know. I wrote a lot, but whether any of it is worth keeping remains to be seen.”

The kettle sang. Daeron spooned the tea leaves into the pot, and Maglor poured the water. “I’ve been thinking about what I’m to sing at Midwinter,” he said as he set the kettle aside and got a loaf of bread out, and a jar of honey.

“I thought you had already decided,” Daeron said.

“I had, but then I remembered that song about the sea monster—”

Daeron was startled into a burst of bright laughter before he clapped a hand over his mouth, just as Maglor had intended. “You wouldn’t,” he said.

“I always meant to perform it before Elu Thingol and all his court,” Maglor said, “remember? So they can all hear how you—”

“Oh stop!” Daeron, still laughing, kissed him. “I’d forgotten all about that stupid song. Don’t tell me you actually finished it.”

“No, but I have enough that I could sing—”

“Absolutely not. I forbid it.”

“Or maybe I could finish it in time for Ingwë’s east and then all of the Eldalië can hear—”

“Maglor!”

“You can’t forbid me from singing it then,” Maglor said, “because Elemmírë is the one in charge, not you, and I’m sure she’ll be very happy—”

“Elemmírë would not—”

“So if I write out a copy and send it to her—” Maglor might have gone on as long as he could keep Daeron laughing, but movement in the doorway caught both his and Daeron’s attention, and they turned to find Escelírë there.

“Amil,” Daeron said, “I’m sorry, did we wake you?” He had an arm flung around Maglor’s neck, and it tightened just a little as he pressed himself closer.

“No,” she said. “I wasn’t asleep, and thought I heard your voice.” She seemed to hesitate before asking in precisely the same tone Nerdanel would have used, “Are you well, Daeron?”

Daeron opened his mouth, but then closed it, visibly stopping himself from giving a cheerful and flippant answer. “I’m very—I’m tired,” he said after a moment. “I’m sorry I was not here to greet you and Atar earlier.”

“That’s all right,” Escelírë said. “We heard you had been busy, and spent the morning with Queen Melian.”

“Part of it, yes.”

Escelírë’s gaze flicked to Maglor, but he couldn’t quite read her expression. “We can speak more tomorrow?” she said to Daeron.

“Yes, of course.”

She left then, returning upstairs. Daeron took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I suppose that could’ve gone worse.”

“First steps,” Maglor said, and kissed his cheek. “It’s a start.”