A Hundred Miles Through the Desert - Chapter Forty Five

[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

 

It snowed heavily all through the night, and they woke to a world outside gone soft and white, with snowdrifts taller than Calissë gleaming in the sunshine. Her excitement was endless, and she was barely able to sit still at the table long enough to eat her breakfast—and she only did so because Maglor flatly refused to go outside until he finished his, and then, to keep her attention and to tease her, he ate as slowly as possible.

Meanwhile, Daeron had disappeared with Simpalírë. The rest of the family were at breakfast, laughing at Calissë’s excitement and talking of the snow and of the upcoming Midwinter celebrations. “Will you sing for us alongside Daeron, Maglor?” Lacheryn asked.

“Yes, of course,” Maglor said, looking up to offer a smile. “Daeron and I were talking of it last—Pídhres!” He spotted her jumping up onto a shelf and rose to grab her before she knocked something over. “You’re far too old for this sort of nonsense!”

“She looks barely out of kitten-hood,” said Aldalëo.

“She has the favor of Estë, for reasons that must remain mysterious,” Maglor said as he tossed Pídhres out of the dining room and watched her dart away down the hall. “I took her with me to Lórien decades ago and she hasn’t aged a day ever since.”

“Daeron once said she came all the way from Middle-earth with you,” said Mablung.

“Yes, all the way from Rivendell, and then all the way to Ekkaia and back. She must be the most well-traveled cat in Arda by now, as well as the longest-lived.”

“But why?” Escelírë asked, looking rather baffled by the idea. “She cannot have done very well on the ship.”

“You make it sound as though I had a choice!” Maglor said. Mablung snorted into his tea. “I did try to leave her behind in Annúminas with Halbarad alongside all her litter mates, but she was having none of it. Anyway, she hid in the hold the entire voyage.” Maglor sat back down and reached for his tea. “And that meant that I had to go hunting for her when we docked, so I was the last one off the ship.”

Daeron and Simpalírë came in a minute later, neither of them smiling but both looking a little more at ease with the other. Pídhres had draped herself over Daeron’s shoulders, rubbing her head into his chin. As he sat beside Maglor, Daeron scratched her absently behind the ears. When Calissë learned that Maglor wasn’t going to go outside with her until Daeron finished his breakfast, she blew an exasperated raspberry and gave up, running off to get herself dressed. “Better eat quickly, Daeron,” Mablung laughed. “And watch out when you get outside. Calissë will make you both pay for this delay.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Maglor said. As the talk moved on, he leaned over to whisper to Daeron, slipping into Westron that no one else at the table spoke, “Everything all right?”

“It will be, I think,” Daeron said softly in the same tongue. Simpalírë had taken a seat at the other end of the table, beside Aldalëo, and hadn’t looked over at Daeron since. “It’s hard to tell. I know how fights with Mablung go, and how to patch things up afterward, but not my brother.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Maglor said. “It won’t be the last time you fight, and next time it will probably be over something very stupid.”

“I hope so,” Daeron murmured. “Something silly and simple and easy to fix.” He kept his gaze lowered, eyes on his plate, and didn’t engage with the wider conversation around them. Pídhres didn’t move from his shoulders, not even to sniff at his food, and under the table Maglor kept a hand on Daeron’s knee. “Are you still tired?” Maglor asked him after a little while. “You don’t have to come outside with me and Calissë. You can go back to bed.”

“No, I don’t want to go back to sleep. I need a distraction—and I warn you, it won’t be only Calissë waiting to ambush us.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Maglor.

Daeron ate little, but insisted he was fine and very soon all but dragged Maglor away so they could find their coats and cloaks and gloves. Maglor liked the snow—it was beautiful, the source of many lovely images for wintertime songs—but he knew he would be thoroughly chilled long before they came inside, and was not looking forward to that. “Will you be all right?” Daeron asked as Maglor tugged on his gloves.

“I’ll last as long as Calissë does,” Maglor said. “She doesn’t need to know that I don’t like being cold.”

“She’s too clever not to notice,” Daeron said. “You can always blame it on that enchantress—but then all the other children will demand to hear the story.”

“Which will be a good excuse to retreat inside for hot chocolate and the fireside,” Maglor said. “I don’t mind telling the story again.”

“It will be shared far and wide, you know,” Daeron said. “I bet even Melian will tease you about it.”

Melian had thus far been very gracious and very kind, but Maglor had tried to avoid speaking to her for very long at any one time. She was more like Gandalf than the other Maiar that he had met or seen, but she could see even more clearly into a person than Galadriel could, and while Maglor didn’t mind Galadriel looking at him like that, it was far more uncomfortable coming from Melian herself. “Does Melian tease people?” he said, because he didn’t want to try to put any of the rest of his thoughts into words lest he say something accidentally insulting.

“Sometimes, if she’s very fond of you,” Daeron said. “Does she frighten you?”

“She…makes me nervous,” said Maglor. “I know she shouldn’t, but—”

“It’s all right.” Daeron slid his arms around Maglor’s waist and kissed him. “She makes many people nervous, outside of Taur-en-Gellam, but you really have nothing to fear—from her, or from anyone. Come on—the longer we wait the more time the children have to gather their snowballs.”

They stepped outside into, as expected, a hail of snowballs, which hit their cloaks and exploded into sparkling white powder. Daeron laughed out loud, and ducked behind a snowdrift to gather a handful of his own to fling back, making Calissë and her friends erupt in gleeful laughter and redouble their own efforts.

The children won the fight, of course, having the advantage of a snow fortress built while waiting for the adults, and a ready stockpile of snowballs already made—and they outnumbered Maglor and Daeron. Daeron tried to call for reinforcements but Mablung only opened the door briefly to laugh at them, and then closed it again just before three snowballs hit, thudding into the wood in quick succession.

Once Maglor and Daeron surrendered, they found out who exactly had joined Calissë in the assault: four of Daeron’s students, all around Calissë’s age and all breathless with giggles, pink-cheeked and red-nosed with the cold. Maglor scooped Calissë up and tossed her into a snowdrift as she shrieked, and then Pirineth and Glossvir came to find them all, dragging sleds behind them. “There’s a hill that slopes down to the Helethir,” Pirineth said, “and is perfect for sledding!”

“Don’t worry,” Glossvir added to Maglor, “the river is well frozen and there’s no danger of falling through—just of sliding very far and very fast!”

All five children raced ahead, passing light footed over the snow, laughing and calling to one another as they went. Maglor and Daeron followed more slowly, falling into step with Pirineth and Glossvir, who took the opportunity to ask Daeron’s opinion on a song they intended to perform before Thingol’s court at Midwinter. Daeron seemed refreshed by the cold and the activity, much more like his usual self as he laughed and offered guidance and encouragement. When they reached the sledding hill, however—which had already attracted two dozen other children and various adults who Maglor wasn’t entirely sure were there solely to supervise—they hung back and did not follow the children or Pirineth and Glossvir up the hill.

“Are you going to sled down?” Daeron asked Maglor.

“No thank you,” Maglor said, watching the first sled go zooming down the steep hill and then go sliding down the frozen river. “How exactly are they going to stop?”

“There’s a net,” Lathrandir said, coming up to join them. He had snow caught in his dark hair and all down his cloak, as though he’d been rolling around in it. “Don’t worry, it works every year!”

“I hope so,” Maglor said, “or else Curvo is never going to let me take Calissë out of his sight again.”

“She’ll be fine,” Daeron said, looping his arm through Maglor’s as Lathrandir ran up the hill to join the line. Maglor saw Calissë getting onto a sled with Cýroniel, both of them giggling. Calissë spotted him and waved.

“I know,” he said as he waved back. “I’m still glad that I had her write home yesterday.” Daeron laughed, and leaned his head on Maglor’s shoulder. “Are you really all right?” Maglor asked softly.

“I am. I can’t say I’m looking forward to speaking with my parents later, since I'm sure they’ll have heard all about my recent behavior, but…it is what it is.”

“Siblings fight; I don’t think it will be as bad as you fear,” Maglor said. Glossvir pushed the sled and Cýroniel and Calissë went hurtling down the hill, screaming, and vanished down the river, the sled’s runners scraping over the ice. Maglor grimaced. “Oh, that is so fast.”

“Oh please, you would have been the first one up that hill at that age. I bet you and your brothers would’ve found a way to make the hill even higher.”

“I don’t see you eager for it either.”

“The way things have been going for me lately, I’d probably break through the net at the end and then break something else crashing into a tree—sweet Elbereth have mercy, is that Ingwë?”

“Valmar is in very hilly country,” Maglor said as they watched the High King of the Eldar go zipping away down the hill, laughing as his long golden braids flew out behind him. “I bet the Vanyar know a thing or two about sledding.”

A bonfire was built near the hill for those either waiting to go sledding or just there to watch, and flasks of hot tea or mulled wine were passed around. Maglor was grateful for the fire, but by the time Calissë and her friends were ready to retreat somewhere properly warm he felt frozen to his bones.

“Are you cold, Uncle Cáno?” Calissë asked as she slipped her hand into his for the walk back.

“Not as cold as when the enchantress nearly got me,” Maglor said, and as predicted he received a chorus of what enchantress? from Cýroniel, Faranel, and Celugil. Ríthon had run ahead, but came darting back at the hint of a story. As Daeron laughed Maglor told them, “I’ll tell you all about it when we’re inside somewhere cozy.”

It was a great relief to step inside and inhale warm air instead of air so cold it burned his nose. Maglor changed into his warmest and most comfortable robes, and followed Daeron back downstairs where Lacheryn and Escelírë were passing out mugs of steaming hot chocolate. His story of the enchantress and the talking animals was as well received there as it had been in Imloth Ningloron; Maglor even saw Daeron’s parents laughing at it.

After he finished, Faranel looked at him with narrowed eyes. “Is that true?” she asked.

“Of course it’s true!” Maglor said, putting on an affronted air at the very idea of telling such an outrageous lie.

“It is,” Daeron said. He sat behind Maglor on a chair, while Maglor sat cross-legged on the rug in front of the hearth. “He told the same story in Imloth Ningloron, and Master Elrond agreed that every word was perfectly true. You wouldn’t doubt Master Elrond, would you?”

“No,” chorused all the children, but Ríthon added, “We might doubt you, Master Daeron. You’re always telling silly stories that aren’t really true.”

“For shame!” Daeron exclaimed as the children giggled. “Name one story that I’ve told that isn’t true—”

“The one about the horses with wings that live near the Sea of Rhûn,” said Cýroniel immediately.

“You mean the ones that I saw with my very own eyes—”

“And the one about the lands where the Sun comes to rest on the sands in the far south so Arien can dance with the people there, the ones you called Sun-dwellers,” added Celugil.

“That one I had from Eärendil himself,” Daeron said.

“Then there was the one about the giant spiders—”

“Oh those are definitely real,” Maglor said. “Mirkwood was full of them.”

Celugil still seemed skeptical. “Even the ones that tied up a bunch of dwarves that then got rescued by the halfling with a magic ring?”

“That one is true!” Calissë said. “I asked Master Gimli, and he said his father was one of the dwarves, and Master Legolas said so too.”

Maglor added, “Legolas knows all about the dark things that lurked in Mirkwood; his father still reigns there—though of course it’s the Greenwood again now. There are no more spiders left. But his rescue of the dwarves was one of Bilbo’s favorite stories to tell.”

“Told you,” said Daeron, and stuck out his tongue at Celugil.

“But what about—”

“All right, that’s enough,” said Lacheryn. “Come bring your mugs to the kitchen; there’s more hot chocolate—and honey cakes just out of the oven for you!”

As the children scrambled away Maglor leaned back against Daeron, who slid his fingers through Maglor’s hair and kissed the top of his head. “Horses with wings?” Maglor asked.

“It’s a legend in those lands, old as the Sea of Rhûn itself; there are dozens and dozens of stories, only some of which I’ve gotten a chance to share here,” said Daeron, laughing. “And I am certain that I saw one once—flying over the water, wings shining white in the moonlight. It was beautiful.”

“And the one about Arien coming down…?”

“I didn’t really hear it from Eärendil, but I read it in a book of tales out of Númenor about his early voyages, and there was a note in the beginning promising that they were all records of tales Eärendil had told himself in Sirion, so that’s close enough. There was another story that says he slew Ungoliant, but I’m not going to tell that one to children. The spiders of Mirkwood are quite scary enough.”

“So is the enchantress story made up, or is part of it true?” Escelírë asked.

Maglor looked over at her and summoned a smile. “The part about Elladan and Elrohir bringing me back to Rivendell is true,” he said, “though we came from the opposite direction; I’m certainly not going to tell the real story to my nieces. I knew a halfling who swore up and down that his own ancestors met such an enchantress in the north, however, and who was I to question the Thain of the Shire?”

The expected response to that was to ask for the real story, but perhaps something in Daeron’s face discouraged them, because neither Aldalëo nor Escelírë asked anything more. Instead Daeron asked them about the journey to Taur-en-Gellam from Alqualondë, and about his sisters and their families. Maglor leaned his head back against Daeron’s legs, happy to just listen, and that both Daeron and his parents seemed more at ease around one another, able to laugh at and talk of simple everyday things without the past creeping in at the edges. Pídhres trotted into the room to curl up on his lap, purring contentedly as he pet her.

Having consumed as much cake as they could stand, the children came crowding back into the parlor to demand more stories. Daeron took over with some old favorites of the Sindarin children that Calissë hadn't yet heard. Then Daeron decided to make a lesson out of it and asked his students to sing one of their favorite lays, as practice for their upcoming performances.

The children all scattered before dinnertime, heading home through the growing twilight and glimmering snowdrifts. Maglor felt increasingly tired, though he hadn’t really done much that day except stand around in the cold, and by the time Calissë was falling asleep on his lap after dinner he was ready to retreat to bed too. “Are you all right?” Daeron murmured in his ear before he got up.

“Fine.” Maglor pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. “Just tired.” He could tell that Daeron was weary too, both of them still feeling the effects of all those recent sleepless nights, but he thought that Daeron was hoping to get some difficult conversations out of the way before he retreated to bed, and Maglor wasn’t going to stand in the way of that.

“Are you still feeling cold?”

“No. Don’t worry about me.” Maglor kissed him again and then bid everyone else goodnight before carrying Calissë up to her own bed.

He fell asleep almost before he had fully settled onto the pillows. His dreams, though, were all of dark cold places, a strange blending of Formenos after the Darkening and the halls of Dol Guldur. He kept trying to find his grandfather, or his father, but whenever he caught a glimpse of them they vanished around a corner—and behind him lurked the Necromancer, and he kept going in circles until he didn’t know where he was at all or even whether he was chasing real people or just phantoms and—

Hands on his face brought Maglor awake with a start. “It’s all right,” Daeron whispered. It was morning, still early, the light pale and dim coming through the window. Maglor was shivering, and couldn’t seem to stop. “It’s all right, beloved—it was only a dream.” Daeron’s brow was creased with worry as he stroked Maglor’s hair. “Do you know me? Do you know where you are?”

“Daeron,” Maglor whispered. “I’m sorry. I—”

“Shh. Come here.” Daeron rearranged the two of them so that Maglor lay half on top of him, his ear pressed against Daeron’s chest over his heart. Daeron tangled his fingers in Maglor’s hair. “What was the dream?”

The details were slipping away quickly now, though Maglor still felt horribly cold. “Just—dark. I think I was looking for someone.” He closed his eyes as Daeron pulled the blankets up, enveloping them both in soft warmth.

“Have you had other dark dreams lately?” Daeron asked, clearly thinking of the nights they had spent apart with no small measure of guilt.

“No.” Maglor lifted his head. “I’ll be all right. They don’t linger anymore, the dreams.”

“You’re still shivering,” Daeron said softly.

“You could warm me up.”

That, at least, got a smile. “I could.” Daeron kissed him, but only softly and briefly. “But we do need to get up soon—tomorrow is Midwinter Day, followed by Midwinter Night, and we’ll be at the palace until the following dawn, and today I need to make sure everyone who is to perform before the court is ready.”

“Do you need me for any of it?”

“No…” Daeron pressed their foreheads together. “But I want you.”

Maglor didn’t want to get up. The cold had ebbed away and the bed was warm, and Daeron was there, and in spite of the dreams he felt rested. He would have to write to Maedhros after the holiday, though he wasn’t sure what to say—Maedhros would want more detail than what reassurances Maglor was willing to put into a letter. Staying up all night for Midwinter itself was also less exciting in that moment than it should have been. Maglor liked holidays, but nearly all of Taur-en-Gellam would be gathered together for the feasting and the dancing, and he still did not like to have so many eyes on him, no matter how easy performing on normal evenings had gotten.

And then his mind turned to Finwë, as it did so often these days, and a chill like a draft through the cells of Dol Guldur swept over him, making him shudder.

“Maglor?” Daeron’s hands were very warm as they rubbed up and down his back, over his spine—over the scars that still criss-crossed his skin. “What’s the matter?”

“My grandfather always liked winter holidays,” Maglor said. “They were different then because the Trees meant the days were always the same length, and the seasons weren’t always like they are now, but there were still parties, and—he would have raced Calissë to the top of the hill to go sledding yesterday, and I just…”

“I’m sorry,” Daeron whispered.

“I don’t—the more I write the more I’m coming to realize that I don’t know what I’ll do if the Valar don’t listen. If I fail at this—”

“It will not be failure, Maglor. If the Valar are not moved it will not be because you are lacking.”

“What if he doesn’t want to come back?” Maglor whispered. “Or what if—what if he can’t, not because of the statute but because Morgoth hurt him so badly—”

“Don’t think of such things,” Daeron said, placing his fingers over Maglor’s lips. “Míriel spends her days in in Vairë’s company, does she not? She knows more of what goes on in Mandos than any other living Elf, I think, and surely if Finwë were so badly hurt she would not be attempting to gain his release. If he did not want to come back, surely she and Indis would honor that wish?”

“I don’t know,” Maglor whispered. “I don’t know what they know or don’t know, or—I just—I’m not enough. I’m not Lúthien, or Eärendil. I’m just—”

“You are a grandson who loves and misses his grandfather,” Daeron said. “You are a son who loves his father, and a singer who loves his people. I’ve heard the music you are writing, I have seen the words, and more than any argument or plea anyone else has made, this song will be all of that love, yours and all the Noldor’s, made manifest. No one who hears it will be unmoved, even Námo Mandos. I am sure of it.”

“And when I fail and my father learns of it, and he…”

“Do not borrow trouble. Surely your father will understand that it is out of your hands once the song is sung. Where are all these thoughts coming from?”

“I don’t know. I just miss him more and more, the more than I learn and the more that I write, and…I don’t know what to do.”

“Just finish the song. One line at a time.” Daeron traced his fingers over Maglor’s face, over his eyebrows and cheekbones. “That’s all you can do, my love. Should I delay my errand for Elemmírë? I don’t have to go this spring—”

“No, don’t delay. The sooner you go the sooner you can come back to me, and the sooner the Avarin singers can start their own preparations.”

“If they wish to participate.”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

Daeron shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t know. They don’t keep themselves entirely separate from the rest of the Elves here, but there are still those who look askance at them, who remember that they were the ones who refused to come west in the first place. It’s nonsense, of course, but…”

“Have you spoken yet with Ingwë?” Maglor asked. “He wants to bring us all together so that we remember that we are all still one people, regardless of the ways we have divided ourselves. Perhaps a message from him will help you if they are reluctant.”

“Perhaps. I should probably get better acquainted with Ingwë anyway.” Daeron leaned in to kiss Maglor. “We really do need to get up, though. Try to put your song out of your mind until after the holiday. It is meant to be a joyous time—the days will grow longer again, the light coming back to chase away the shadows and sorrows of winter’s depths. Grief lies heavy on both of us for now, maybe, but there is hope yet for its easing.”

They went down to breakfast and then made their way to the palace, where Daeron stepped into his role as minstrel and teacher, directing and cajoling and teasing the other musicians, many of whom were or had been his students, and others who were his peers. Maglor sat to the side, offering opinions when asked, but mostly just content to watch. Others drifted in and out of the large hall, watching if there was singing or just to say hello. Daeron’s parents and brother came in and sat near Maglor, accompanied by Lacheryn and Calissë, who ran over to climb onto Maglor’s lap.

“Are you cold, Uncle Cáno?” she asked, when Maglor shifted to tug one of his sleeves back down over his hand.

“Only a little,” he said, aware that Aldalëo was sitting close enough to overhear them, and to catch a glimpse of any scars that might reveal themselves when Maglor’s sleeves rode up.

“Are you sad?” Calissë asked after a moment, peering up at him.

“Why do you ask that, sweetheart?”

“You look a little sad.”

“I think my face just does that sometimes.” Maglor looked down at her. “Are you feeling sad?”

“I miss Ammë and Atya,” Calissë said. “And all my grandparents, and Náriel, and Tyelpë.”

Maglor kissed the top of her head. “I miss them too,” he said softly. “Spring will come before you know it, though, and as soon as the weather warms up enough we’ll be on our way back to Imloth Ningloron.” A bright burst of laughter from across the hall echoed off the high walls and vaulted ceiling. Maglor added, “And tomorrow night you can stay up as long as you want.”

“Really?” Calissë brightened. “Ammë never lets us stay up late, even on holidays!”

“Well, your ammë isn’t here is she?” Maglor said. Calissë would soon be old enough to stay up late on such nights as a matter of course, but for the moment Maglor was glad he could cheer both of them up by spoiling her a little. He wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin atop her head as they watched Daeron sit himself onto the floor so his youngest students could gather around to read over his shoulder as he explained some detail of their performance.

“I thought you were also a part of the performances tomorrow, Prince Macalaurë?” Aldalëo asked after a little while.

“I am,” said Maglor. “I’ll sing with Daeron early in the evening, and closer to midnight I’ll perform a few songs alone. Daeron knows what those songs are, and all I have to do is go where and when he tells me, and all I need is my harp; I don’t need to get involved in all of that.” He gestured at the vaguely chaotic scene before them.

“Calissë!” Cýroniel called as Daeron dismissed his younger students so he could speak to the older musicians. “Come on, now we can teach you our dances!” Calissë jumped down from Maglor’s lap and ran to join her friends, grasping Cýroniel’s hand to join the ring of dancers they were making.

Maglor leaned back against the wall, and then laughed when Pídhres appeared to take Calissë’s place. “Hello, little one. Where have you been?” Pídhres rose onto her hind legs to nuzzle his face before curling up on his lap, purring as he pet her. A few courtiers stopped by to greet him and be introduced to Pídhres. Maglor put on a smile for them, just as he had put on a smile for the Noldorin lords and ladies over the summer, but he still felt tired, and Daeron’s parents sitting so close by made him itch under his skin.

Finally, Daeron came to sit down beside him, sighing dramatically as he leaned his head onto Maglor’s shoulder. “Is it always this chaotic?” Maglor asked him.

“No! Usually we barely have to rehearse at all, but for some reason everyone wants to try new things this year—new songs and new dances as well as putting everything in a different order. I can’t complain, really, because we were due for a few changes and Pirineth has written some beautiful music for this winter, but it does mean that I’m longing for bed already and it isn’t even noon.”

“Noon was an hour ago, love,” Maglor said.

“It was not.” Daeron sat up. “Atar, what’s the time?”

“An hour after noon,” Aldalëo said, lips twitching into a smile. On his other side Simpalírë laughed. “Can you step away for lunch?”

“That explains why I’m starving. Yes, let’s go get lunch—I’ll fetch Calissë.” Daeron went to scoop Calissë up into his arms and dismiss the rest of the children, who darted off in various directions to return home or to wherever they were going to get their own lunch. Calissë wrapped her arms around Daeron’s neck and whispered something in his ear that made his face go very serious as he paused on his way back to the rest of them.

“Your niece seems very fond of Daeron,” Escelírë remarked to Maglor as they all got to their feet.

“Well, he’s been as good as an uncle to her all her life,” Maglor said, “even in my absence.”

“Absence?”

“I only returned from Lórien a year and a half ago—I didn’t even know I had two new nieces until then.” Maglor didn’t look away from Daeron, where he conversed quietly with Calissë just out of earshot; he didn’t want to see whatever might be on Escelírë or Aldalëo’s face—or Simpalírë’s. He just added, trying to keep his voice light, “My encounter with the enchantress left me with more than just a few bits of white in my hair.”

Daeron and Calissë joined them before anyone could say anything more. “Ready?” Daeron asked, smile firmly back on his face. “This way to the kitchens.”

The rest of the day passed busily. The whole of Taur-en-Gellam was engaged with last-minute preparations for the feasting and dancing of Midwinter night. Maglor did as Daeron suggested and put his own song away, and tried to put Finwë entirely out of his mind. It didn’t really work—especially on Midwinter Day when he found himself in conversation with Ingwë or Thingol, for they inevitably mentioned how much Finwë would like these celebrations, or remembered fondly past celebrations in Tirion before the unrest and strife.

His own performances went well, and Calissë enjoyed the dancing and the games, and managed to stay awake far later than Maglor had actually expected her to. He carried her home through the snowdrifts that glimmered in the starlight, and helped her out of her lovely gown embroidered with tiny seed pearls on the sleeves. She was asleep even before her head hit the pillow. Maglor tucked her in snugly and left Pídhres to curl up with her, and returned to the palace just in time for his own midnight performance. After that there was dancing until sunrise, when the whole city emerged to greet the dawn with songs, many of which had been first written in praise of the very first sunrise over Beleriand long ago.

“Which ones were yours?” Simpalírë asked Daeron as they made their way home afterward. The snowdrifts were all rosy pink now with the dawn; the air was frigid, and Maglor was exhausted.

“The first one we sang,” said Daeron. “I wrote others but that’s the only one worth remembering now. Two of the others were Maglor’s.”

“Really?”

“I was surprised to hear them too,” said Maglor. “I didn’t write them in Beleriand, though—I wrote them in Rivendell.”

“I think Dior brought them back here from Imloth Ningloron,” said Daeron. “I’m surprised he and Nimloth did not return here for the winter.”

“They’ve been staying with Elwing,” said Beleg on Daeron’s other side. “You might pass them on the road come springtime when you go home.”

“Well, the rest of you might,” Daeron laughed, “but I have errands in the west. I’m sure I’ll see Dior and Nimloth before I leave here. That reminds me, Beleg, I wanted to consult with you.”

“Where is Daeron going?” Aldalëo asked Maglor once they were back at the house, and Daeron went off with Beleg. All of a sudden, since coming to Taur-en-Gellam, Daeron’s parents seemed quite happy to engage Maglor in conversation—though it was mostly just questions about Daeron—and he thought that was probably a good sign. At least they weren’t avoiding him entirely.

“Ingwë’s feast is coming up, and Elemmírë wants singers from all the Elves to participate in her grand performance, in keeping with Ingwë’s desire to bring us all together as one people again,” said Maglor. “Daeron volunteered to go look for singers and musicians among the Avari who keep more to themselves.”

“Why?” Escelírë asked, frowning. “They may not welcome outsiders.”

“Daeron is less of an outsider than you might be imagining,” Maglor said, and watched them both frown. “It’s one thing to disagree about choices made before and during the Great Journey, but none of that had anything to do with his decision to travel back into the east. It was probably safer there, east of the Ered Luin, when he left Beleriand.”

“He would have been safest, though, if he had not stayed behind at all,” said Escelírë. “We don’t expect you to understand—you Noldor who went back yourselves; it was madness.”

“Well, Valinor did not prove as safe as hoped in the end either, did it?” Maglor said quietly. “We were wrong about many things, but I don’t believe going back was the wrong choice.”

“You really believe that?” Escelírë asked. “After all that happened—all that happened to you? You have no regrets?”

“Of course I have regrets,” said Maglor. “But going back to Middle-earth is not one of them—that’s not the same as how we went back, which was terrible, and I regret it deeply. But were it not for promises I made to Elrond, I never would have returned here.”

He made his escape after that, to collapse into bed and sleep the rest of the morning away. He woke to Pídhres shoving her face into his and meowing loudly, with Daeron wrapped around him from behind and grumbling into his hair. It was so normal that it was almost like the fight had never happened, like nothing was wrong, nothing was hanging over them at all. He scratched Pídhres’ ears and laughed at Daeron before rolling over to kiss him fully awake.