A Hundred Miles Through the Desert - Chapter Sixty One

[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

 

“Oh, Macalaurë, this is beautiful!” Indis accepted the book and carefully paged through it. “You did not have to make such a beautiful copy for me.”

“I didn’t,” Maglor said. “Elrond did—and Celebrían, and the twins.” They sat in Indis’ private parlor near the large windows that once upon a time had let in the Treelight. Now they let in sunshine and the smell of roses, and the music of the fountain just out of sight in the garden outside. The sunlight made Indis’ hair gleam, and caught in the carnelian beads wound through her braids, and set into the rings on her fingers. “I hope the song itself is what you were hoping for.”

“It is,” Indis said after a few minutes, as she read a few pages of it. “It’s wonderful—I knew it would be, but it is even more than I expected. Thank you so much for this. I hear you intend to sing it next year, before all the Eldalië?”

“Yes. But before that…I’ve never sought an audience with the Valar before. I don’t know how to go about it.”

“Well, I have plenty of practice,” Indis said, a little wryly. She closed the book and reached for Maglor’s hand. “I will send a request on your behalf, and while I am confident that they will agree to hear you, I cannot say with any certainty when. They might answer immediately, or they might make you wait ten years.”

“I had hoped to go to them before the end of the year,” Maglor said, hoping he did not sound as nervous as he really was, “but—well, that’s only my preference.”

“The sooner to get it over with, you mean?” Indis asked. “I understand—and I know what it is we are asking of you, Macalaurë. Please do not think either Míriel or I have asked it lightly.”

“I know you haven’t,” said Maglor, “but as I told my grandmother, I do not think they will listen to me.”

“They’ll listen,” said Indis. “They always listen. They have not been moved before, though we have pleaded with them on our knees, and argued with them with all the eloquence and vehemence that all the kings and queens of Aman can muster—it is my hope now that showing them our sorrow will be what moves them at last, what makes them really understand the mistake they have made. And with your words and your voice, Macalaurë, I cannot imagine they will not be moved.”

Maglor wanted to argue, to remind her that he was not what he had once been—but Indis had heard him singing in Imloth Ningloron, and others had told him more than once that his voice was not as changed as he felt it to be, so he did not try. It wouldn’t change anything, anyway. “I will not sing it elsewhere before the feast,” he said instead, “and afterward—I don’t think I’ll have it in me. Others can take it up, if they wish.”

“I wouldn’t ask it of you,” said Indis. “Even without a performance before the Valar to worry about, I know this must be difficult to sing aloud.” She then went on to ask some questions about the song, about the music and about some of the details he had written. That turned into another conversation about Finwë himself, and Maglor came away from it missing his grandfather fiercely, but also glad that Indis was pleased, and hoping that she would hear from the Valar one way or the other soon.

He spent the next few days with his nieces, playing games with the cats and teaching the girls silly songs—including one of Lindir’s about Fëanor falling into the fishpond, which they both found very funny. All Rundamírë said when she heard them singing it afterward was, “At least it’s not the one about breaking all the plates.” At night he kept dreaming of the Eye—and the image of it lingered afterward as it had not in many years, difficult to put out of his mind until long after breakfast. The nightmares that had started in the spring had lessened in frequency and in intensity, but had not gone entirely away as he’d tried to tell his brothers; he just tried to put them out of his mind, and tried to tell himself he was fine.

A week after he’d come to Tirion, Maglor found himself summoned back to the palace—this time by Fingon, to join him and his wife and son and Fingolfin and Indis for lunch. “Irissë has gone off with some old friends, and Lómion is busy with Celebrimbor doing something so complicated that I stopped listening a third of the way through the explanation,” Fingon told Maglor when he met him outside, “so it’s a very small party today. Hello, Pídhres! Still can’t leave her behind anywhere, I see.”

“Alas, no,” Maglor said as Fingon laughed and Pídhres purred from her favorite spot on Maglor’s shoulders. “But I hear Gil-galad is very tall, so if she gets stuck somewhere I’m going to have to borrow him.”

Even forewarned, it was a little startling to come face to face with Gil-galad and find that he bore an even closer resemblance to Finwë than Elrond had said. He did not sound like Finwë, though—he did not sound like anyone in their family, just like himself. It was a cheerful meal, and the conversation mostly consisted of family gossip and much laughter. Gilheneth had lately introduced Angrod and Orodreth’s wives to Rundamírë and Lisgalen. “They are already acquainted with Daeron, of course, from Middle-earth,” she added, “but we have missed him when we gather together in Rundamírë’s rooftop garden to laugh at all of you.”

“He’ll be back soon enough,” said Maglor. “I don’t know if I should be amused or worried.”

“Have you invited Celeborn?” Gil-galad asked.

“I have!” Gilheneth said. “But he and Galadriel come so seldom to Tirion that he hasn’t yet taken me up on it.”

After lunch, Pídhres escaped into the garden, chasing after a chipmunk, just as Maglor was bidding his cousins farewell. Their laughter followed him as he chased her down the path, finding her eventually in a hawthorn tree near the hedge maze, stuck just out of his reach as usual. He had worn fine robes that day, which were not at all suitable for climbing trees. “I should just leave you up there,” he said. Pídhres meowed plaintively. “Don’t give me that. You got up there, you can get down—you aren’t a kitten anymore!” She meowed again, and then jumped down to a branch from which he could reach her. “There, see, that wasn’t so hard.” Maglor kissed the top of her head, only to find her suddenly squirming out of his hold, claws digging into his arms painfully before she got free. “What—” She leaped from his arms and shot away into the hedge maze. “Pídhres! Now is not the time!” Maglor chased after her again without thinking, and soon found himself in the center of the maze, where a small and fragrant herb garden had been planted, the lavender all in bloom and busy with bees buzzing cheerfully from blossom to blossom, alongside chamomile and rosemary and sage. There were several comfortable benches arranged together; Pídhres darted underneath one, and hissed when Maglor leaned down to try to grab her. “What’s the matter with you?” he demanded. She just hissed again, back arched and tail puffed up, as she had never hissed at him before. Even Huan had never made her act like this.

He sensed a presence only a second before a voice behind him said, “Hail Prince Macalaurë, son of Fëanáro.” Maglor straightened and spun, and found Eönwë before him, tall and resplendent all in gold and white, with the Light of the Trees shining in his stern face, his pale hair tumbling in curls over his shoulders and down his back. He was not armed or armored, but for a moment that was all Maglor could see—for a moment he was again in the dark after the War of Wrath when Eönwë had stood before them blazing like a star come to earth, the chest bearing the Silmarils heavy in his hands, blood pounding in his ears, certain that both he and Maedhros were going to die.

Then the moment passed, and he was back under the sun in Valinor, in Anairë’s hedge maze, with the smell of lavender and rosemary in his nose instead of blood and sweat. “My Lord Eönwë,” he said, kneeling, glad of the excuse to bow his head and look at something other than his face, to maybe hide how hard his heart was pounding in his chest. The scars on his hand throbbed.

“It was once said that your voice was drowned, long ago in the Great Sea,” said Eönwë, in a voice deep and clear as a horn call across a battlefield. “I am glad that it was not so, and that you have returned home at last.”

Maglor couldn’t breathe. “Thank you, my lord,” he whispered.

“The Valar have heard your petition for an audience, and will grant it. My Lord Manwë will be pleased indeed to hear the Noldor’s greatest singer once again. Come to the Máhanaxar in two days’ time.”

“Thank you,” Maglor said again, without lifting his head. “I will come.” There was a slight shift in the air, and when he finally looked up, Eönwë was gone. Maglor sat down hard, trying to breathe, chest and hand burning, ears ringing. Pídhres emerged from beneath the bench to climb onto his lap, but he couldn’t steady his hands enough to pet her. Two days. Two days hence, he needed to go to the Máhanaxar to stand before the Valar and sing and—

Oh, he had been such a fool to think that he could do it. To go before Manwë himself—to go before Varda, and Námo, and Ulmo, and all the rest, to believe that anything he might say or sing would move them, to believe that he would be able to sing at all when he had hardly been able to speak before even just Eönwë. It had never been the song that would fail, it had always been him. A thousand years in Lórien wouldn’t be enough to regain what he had lost in the dark—he would always be too broken for this.

Laughter through the hedges made him start, and he realized he didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there. The sun was no longer as high in the sky as it had been. Pídhres stood on her hind legs to press her paws against his chest, meowing insistently in his face, and he didn’t know how long she had been doing that either. “I can’t do it,” he whispered.

The great singer of the Noldor—

The bright and laughing voices drew nearer, and Maglor stumbled to his feet, nearly tripping over the hems of his robes. He fled the garden, but found himself utterly turned around in the maze, unable to remember how he had come in or even which way he needed to go to get out.

It has been sung that the Great Sea drowned your voice long ago, Maglor son of Fëanor.

By the time he gave up it was getting dark, and Maglor sank to the ground again, in a dead-end of the maze, boxwood towering around him, green and thick and impenetrable as stone. Maglor curled up with his arms around his knees, trying not to think of cold stone and failing. His chest burned, every breath painful. Eönwë’s voice played again his his mind, over the sound of Sauron’s mocking voice, the two of them clashing like blades, grating like metal over stone.

My Lord Manwë will be pleased indeed to hear the Noldor’s greatest singer.

Won’t you sing us a song, minstrel? Let us hear whether your voice is still as mighty as history has made it.

When he closed his eyes all he could see was the Necromancer sitting upon his throne—with burning eyes in a barely-there face that were unlike Eönwë’s in every way and yet exactly alike at the same time. All he could hear was the laughter of Sauron, like dragonfire—and feel the heat that rolled off of Eönwë like the blazing summer sun, though ice still dripped down his spine and he couldn’t stop shivering.

Pídhres meowed and pawed at him, and then hands were on his arms, and Maglor cried out, falling backward against the walls—no, into the bushes, twigs snapping and scraping across his face before he was pulled back out. “Macalaurë, it’s all right,” Nerdanel's voice said, and he knew that wasn’t real—he wouldn't fall for that trick, not after the first time—but then he heard her call to someone else, “I’ve found him!”

He opened his eyes as Nerdanel brushed the hair from his face, her own expression a mask of worry and relief all blended together. “What are you doing out here, Macalaurë?” she asked. “What happened?”

“Ammë?” he gasped. “Are you—”

“Am I what, sweetheart?” Her hands on his face were rough, calloused and smudged with ink and clay—real hands, to go with her real face and her real voice.

He still couldn’t stop shaking, and couldn’t stop the words that spilled out against his will. “I’m sorry—Ammë, I’m sorry I can’t do it, I—”

“Cáno?” Fëanor was there suddenly, kneeling beside Nerdanel, bright and warm. Maglor flinched, lost his balance, and fell into Nerdanel’s arms. He buried his face in her chest. “What’s happening?” he heard Fëanor ask. “What’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t know,” said Nerdanel. “Macalaurë, what can’t you do?” She stroked his hair and it should have been comforting but his head was full of clamoring voices, mocking and derisive and right, and he should never have come west at all, should have just vanished back into the wilderness again before he ever reached Mithlond—back where there was no one to ask anything of him, or to expect the impossible, no one to see him for what he really was.

“I can’t go,” he said into Nerdanel’s dusty tunic. “They expect me at the Máhanaxar—”

“The Máhanaxar?” Fëanor said, uncharacteristic alarm in his voice.

“—and I can’t. I knew it wouldn’t work but I thought—I thought I’d be able to sing it but I don’t—” Maglor’s voice broke. Pídhres meowed somewhere nearby, but he couldn’t make himself lift his head, let alone look for her. He couldn't even do that, couldn’t even take care of a silly cat, and so many people expected him to work a miracle before the Valar themselves.

Fëanor’s hand was on his back, heavy and warm. “What are you to sing before the Valar, Cáno?” he asked.

“Do you not know?” Nerdanel replied before Maglor could even try.

“If I knew, Nerdanel, I would not have to ask—”

“For what other purpose do you think your mother wants a song written for Finwë? You’ve heard the tales of Eärendil and Lúthien both—”

“Surely that isn’t—”

“I said I would,” Maglor said, “but Eönwë came and—I can’t. I can’t bear it, I’m not—” The last and least of the sons of Fëanor, he’d been called, and if it had been mocking then it had also been true, and it was still true, and he didn’t know why he had ever thought that he could escape it, why he ever thought he could be anything like the great singer everyone still somehow believed him to be. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“No, Macalaurë,” Nerdanel said, kissing the top of his head, “don’t apologize. None of this is your fault.” She and Fëanor spoke a little more, rapidly and quietly, and Maglor stopped listening. His head ached and he was so tired. He wasn’t supposed to get cold like this anymore. He wasn’t supposed to be trapped by the past—to be pulled into waking nightmares that drowned out the world around him. But he didn’t know anymore how to escape. His chest still hurt and his hand throbbed as though the scars were fresh wounds. Then Nerdanel kissed him again and said, “You’ve been working so hard. You need to rest, and then—”

Panic lurched through Maglor, the illusion of safety shattering with the realization of how close he’d come to being lulled into surrender again, and he pulled himself free, shoving her away as he did. “No! No, no I won’t—you can’t—”

“Macalaurë!”

“You can’t trick me—” He scrambled to his feet, slipping on the gravel, needing to get away—if he could move he could flee, so maybe—if he could just get out of this place, away from Sauron and his terrible enchantments—

“Macalaurë—!” Fëanor—or whatever was wearing Fëanor’s face—caught him, his hands burning hot against Maglor’s frozen skin. He tried to pull away, tried to fight him off, but Fëanor was stronger, and his voice cut through the sudden roaring in Maglor’s ears, impossible to ignore or disobey—speaking words that stilled Maglor’s limbs and then hurled him down into sleep before he could even think of trying to resist.

When he came back to himself, he was tucked into a bed under soft linens that smelled faintly of cherry blossoms. Someone was sitting on top of the blankets beside him, with a hand resting on his hair. Pídhres was nearby; Maglor could hear her purring. For a few minutes he let himself drift, feeling heavy and drowsy and warm. Whoever was in the bed with him had a book; he heard the rustle of paper as the pages were turned. The world felt quiet and soft and peaceful and safe, and he sighed, almost ready to drift back to sleep.

Then he remembered why he felt so tired, and full wakefulness hit him all at once. He jerked up with a gasp, and found himself in a room entirely unfamiliar, richly furnished, with tapestries on the walls depicting scenes from the Years of the Trees, and thick red rugs on the floor. Sunlight spilled through the open windows across the wide expanse of the bed, and outside he could hear the faint buzz of the city somewhere below. “Canafinwë?” Fëanor’s hand landed on Maglor’s shoulder, and he flinched. “It’s all right, Cáno.”

“Where—”

“My rooms. You weren’t in any state to return to Curvo’s house last night.”

“Last night,” Maglor repeated. “Then…” He still had time—but only if he left right away. “I have to go.”

“Cáno, you shouldn’t—”

“I have to be at the Máhanaxar tomorrow.”

“No, you don’t,” said Fëanor.

“I can’t just—just ignore a summons from the Valar!”

“In this instance, yes, you can!” Fëanor said. “And if anyone comes with questions or demands, I will deal with them. I’ll not hesitate to slam the door in Manwë’s own face if I must—”

“Atya—”

“There is no performance worth pushing yourself to the breaking point, Macalaurë!” Fëanor moved to kneel on the bed facing Maglor, hands on his shoulders. “I understand why you feel this is important, but it should never have been asked of you to begin with.”

“But if—it’s for Grandfather—”

“He is in Mandos, and he is safe and at rest and at peace. He is not in any pain, Cáno. You are, and he would not want you to suffer like this.”

“It is important,” Maglor said. Now that he was able to think a little more clearly he could remember the way the Music in the streams of Imloth Ningloron had changed when they had spoken of Finwë, and of Ambarussa’s clear and easy confidence that it would make a difference. He could remember Daeron’s steady encouragement and Elrond’s quiet faith. He wanted so badly for them to be right and for himself to be wrong. To believe that maybe he could stand before the Valar and sing as he once had before the glittering courts of Finwë in Tirion, however afraid he was. He had been wrong before, about other equally important things; he knew better than to trust to his own judgment of himself, at least now in the light of day. “I have to go, Atya. It won’t be—Eönwë caught me by surprise yesterday. That won’t happen again.” If he did fall apart it would just be plain fear, which wasn’t much better, but at least it would be different.

Fëanor searched his face, and then said, “You told me before that performance doesn’t frighten you as it once did—but you are frightened now.”

“We were not speaking then of going before the Valar,” said Maglor.

“No, I suppose not—though you knew even then that this was coming, didn’t you?”

“I knew from the start. I just—I didn’t want to tell you.”

“Why, Cáno? Did you think I would—”

“For the same reason I didn’t want you to look for Formenos in the palantír.”

Fëanor sighed. Then he said, “Do you remember the first time you sang before your grandfather’s court?”

Maglor blinked. “I—yes? But—”

“You were afraid then, too. Do you remember what I said to you?”

“You said to ignore everyone else and just sing for you.” Maglor remembered that very well—he had done exactly that, and it had worked; he had forgotten all about everyone else, and it had been as easy as singing in their garden at home. That was long before he had ever learned that his father’s regard might be lost, or that he might ever be a disappointment to him, when he could look for his face in a crowd and see nothing there but encouragement and pride. That was when he had still been a child, and hadn’t really known what true fear was. “But, Atya—”

Fëanor tucked a strand of hair behind Maglor’s ear. “I still say this should never have been asked of you,” he said, “but if you feel that you must see this through, you need not do it alone. I will go, and you’ll stand before the Valar, yes, but you’ll sing for me. Not for them.”

Maglor felt like he should argue—he’d already made Celegorm promise not to follow him, and he had intended to go alone—but arguing with his brothers was different than trying to argue with Fëanor. For one thing, he was never going to win against Fëanor. “All right,” Maglor sighed. “But it’s—two days, Eönwë said to me, and that was yesterday. I must be there tomorrow.”

“There’s still time,” Fëanor said, sliding off the bed and going to the wardrobe. “You need to eat something, and one of your brothers can fetch your harp and a change of clothes. They’re all lurking in my sitting room, and have been for the last three hours waiting for you to wake up.”

“But if you—”

“There is nothing happening here that I cannot set aside, especially for this,” Fëanor said. “You are far more important.” He pulled a tunic over his undershirt and then handed a robe to Maglor, who had to blink several times as his eyes stung. “I’m sorry I forgot that before, Cáno. I won’t forget it again. Talk to your brothers; I’ll arrange for horses and for a late breakfast to be sent up. You haven’t eaten since lunch yesterday.”

Maglor waited until Fëanor left before wrapping the robe more tightly around himself—it was too big, made for Fëanor’s broader shoulders—and then scooping up Pídhres to go out into the sitting room where his brothers were waiting. He wasn’t hungry, but if he was going to perform the next day he did need to eat, especially since he wasn’t going to be able to rest any longer.

“What happened?” Caranthir demanded as soon as Maglor stepped into the room. “Who do I need to punch?”

“What? No one! I’m sorry,” Maglor said. “Curvo, I didn’t mean to—”

“Of course you didn’t mean to,” said Curufin as he came to pull Maglor over to sit down between him and Amrod on the sofa. Amrod immediately put his arms around Maglor and leaned his head on his shoulder. “Ammë told us Eönwë came and that something had frightened you—it sounded like you got lost, the same way you did by the river.”

“I think I did. I don’t remember very much after lunch yesterday.” It was just panic and fear and the growing certainty that he was never going to be free of the chains of the past. That certainty hadn’t quite left, though the panic had ebbed. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

“When do you have to go before the Valar?” Amras asked.

“Tomorrow. So I have to leave today—”

Caranthir muttered a curse. “I knew we should’ve made you wait for Tyelko and Daeron at home.”

“What?” Maglor turned to him, forgetting for a moment all about the Valar. “Wait for—hang on, is that where Tyelko went? Carnistir—”

“Of course it’s where he went,” said Amrod. “You need Daeron here.”

“And he needs to—”

“Someone else can carry a message for Elemmírë. It never had to be him,” said Caranthir. “Please don’t tell us you’re going to go to the Máhanaxar by yourself. I know you made Tyelko promise not to follow, but I never made and won’t make any such promise.”

“Atya’s going with me.”

“I thought you didn’t want him to know anything about it,” said Amrod.

“I didn’t. Then—well, obviously he knows now. I must have said something yesterday, or maybe Ammë did, I don’t know.” He had a very vague memory of Nerdanel’s voice, but it he didn’t know how much was real or just his imagination. Just another nightmare come back to haunt him—the worst of all of them. “It’s not like I can convince him to stay if he doesn’t want to.”

“That’s true,” said Curufin. “But you don’t have your harp—we brought a change of clothes, but nothing suitable for the Máhanaxar. I’ll go and get it. When do you leave?”

“After you get back, I suppose.”

“I hope you’re going to eat something. You should go back to bed, because you look awful—”

“Yes, thank you, Atarinkë,” Maglor said, earning himself an eye roll and a yank on his braid. And because if he kept saying it he would eventually believe it, “I will be fine—”

“Of course you will,” said Caranthir, “but you aren’t fine now, so that means you have to let us help.”

“I am letting you help,” Maglor said as Fëanor returned to the room with a tray. “But you can’t come.”

“Cáno—”

“Please don’t. I’m too tired to argue about it.”

“Fine.” Caranthir leaned over the back of the sofa to kiss the top of Maglor’s head, hands on his shoulders. “Come straight back to Curvo’s when it’s over. We’ll be waiting for you there.”

“I will.”

“You’ll be brilliant, Macalaurë,” Amrod whispered before kissing Maglor’s cheek and following Caranthir to the door.

“I’ll be back later with your harp,” Curufin said.

“And when this does work,” Amras added as he leaned over the sofa as Caranthir had to wrap his arms around Maglor, “we’ll all say we told you so.” He didn’t wait for Maglor to answer before following the others. Maglor slumped in his seat as the door closed behind them, and pressed his face into Pídhres’ fur. She rubbed her head against his temple and purred.

“Who else knows I fell to pieces yesterday?” he asked after a moment, when it occurred to him that Tirion was a very crowded city at the moment, and that there were always a lot of people in and around the palace.

“No one,” said Fëanor, “though I’m sure Nolofinwë at least knows you slept here last night.” He sat beside Maglor and pried Pídhres out of his arms. “Eat something before Curvo comes back, and then we can leave. In the meantime—what exactly is it you hope to accomplish with this song? I’ve read it, and there is nothing in it that sounds like any kind of plea.”

“All of those have been made already,” said Maglor. The tray had been set on the low table before them, and he leaned forward to pick up a roll, turning it over in his hands. “The Valar know what we want, and they know all the arguments for it. This is just—this is just the why. It’s what the statute really means. I don’t know if that makes sense.”

“It does.”

Maglor ate the roll, and a few other things before his stomach threatened to revolt, and then he dressed in the clothes his brothers had already brought for him. As he tied off his braid Curufin returned with a small satchel and his harp case. “There’s a few pieces of jewelry in here too,” Curufin said as he handed it to Maglor. Fëanor was in the bedroom, packing his own things. “I know you don’t like wearing it, but—well, you’re going before the Valar. I didn’t choose anything very ornate.”

“I’ll wear them. Thanks, Curvo.” Maglor hugged him. “I’m sorry I worried you yesterday.”

“Will you tell us what happened when you return? We want to help, but we can’t if we don’t know what’s wrong.”

“I’ll try, but I don’t know if I can explain. And—can you take Pídhres home with you? I don’t want to take her with me this time, and I’m sorry in advance for how angry she’s going to be about it.”

“Yes, of course.”

Curufin went with them down to the stables to see them off. Just before he turned to follow Fëanor out of the courtyard Maglor glimpsed Fingon coming outside, but he pretended not to, and broke into a trot to get away.

It was a warm day, bright and cloudless. Once they left the city they urged their horses into a canter, and once they left the crowded roads they broke into a gallop. The horses of Valinor were tireless, and these were eager for a good and long race. Maglor leaned forward, refreshed by the heat of the sun and the cool wind on his face. Flowers bloomed along the roadside, blurring into a rainbow as they passed by. Towns and villages and lone homesteads passed too, sometimes close enough to the road for those who lived there to pause and watch the two riders in such a hurry. That evening they camped under the stars. Maglor didn’t sleep much, instead lying in the grass to stare up at the sky, tracing unfamiliar constellations and listening to the nighttime sounds around him, and to Fëanor’s breathing close by. When he did sleep he dreamed of different, coarser grasses, and the sounds of waves rolling up over familiar sands, foam glimmering in the starlight.

They went on early in the morning, speaking little. Maglor ate a piece of lembas as they rode, only because he knew Fëanor would be watching to make sure he did. It did little to settle the twisting in his stomach, which only grew worse as Valmar came into view—and just to the north of it rose Ezellohar, where the Trees still stood, blackened and barren, enormous and dark silhouettes against the noonday sky. Maglor slowed his horse without thinking, staring at the sight. He had heard the songs, had read the accounts—but he had never seen them before. It was strange and terrible and sad, and so different from seeing the ruin of Formenos, though they were the result of the same events.

“Cáno?” Fëanor had slowed a few paces ahead, glancing back. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Maglor urged his horse forward again, tearing his gaze from the Trees. Beside the great hill was the Máhanaxar, the Ring of Doom where the thrones of the Valar were arrayed; even at a distance he could see shimmering figures moving around. He took a deep breath and tried to let it out slowly.

They left the horses some distance away to graze and rest near a copse of trees, and Maglor drew his harp from its case, fingers clumsy and trembling. The feeling of the wood under them helped, though—the driftwood that he’d gathered and carved with his own hands, worn smooth as satin now by years of handling. Then he opened the satchel Curufin had given him, and found robes there that he could slip on over his traveling clothes—but which he did not recognize. “Your grandmother made that,” Fëanor said as he pulled a deep red tunic over his own head, edged with gold and silver. The robes were of fine silk, soft under Maglor’s fingers, of the same rich red color as Fëanor’s clothes that would go well with the gold jewelry that Curufin had also tucked into the satchel—including the necklace of mallorn leaves and flowers. Maglor dressed and combed the tangles out of his hair, but left it loose and unadorned. Yes, he was going before the Valar, but he did not want to go before them trying to look like who he had once been. He was not Prince Macalaurë anymore, who had loved to dazzle and who would have strode into the Máhanaxar dripping with gems, and with a confidence bordering on arrogance that felt so foreign to Maglor now that his younger self might have been a completely different person.

“Remember,” Fëanor said quietly as they approached the ring of thrones, “you are singing for me, not for them. They just happen to be here.” Maglor tried to smile, but couldn’t quite manage it, not when his legs stopped working just before they came to the ring of thrones, and he couldn’t make himself take another step. His heart felt like it had moved to his throat, threatening to choke him. Fëanor stepped in front of him then, hands on his shoulders, and kissed his forehead. “I’m so proud of you.”

“But I haven’t even—I can’t—”

“You can. You are so much stronger and braver than you think you are.”

With this to buoy him, Maglor took another deep breath and stepped into the Ring of Doom. Before him sat Manwë in his splendor, shining like the Sun, with Varda at his side sparkling like the midnight sky. The rest of the Valar were arrayed all around them; the forms they had taken were beautiful and bright and tall—though not as large as Maglor had feared he would find them—and the weight of their combined attention felt almost like a physical thing, threatening to send him to his knees. Aulë was clad in bright robes that rippled and flickered like flame; the Fëanturi sat in a row, Námo dark and stern, Nienna smiling kindly behind her silver veils and her tears, and Irmo shimmering and shifting form and hue in that strange way of dreams. Maglor did not turn to see the others sitting around and behind him. Instead he bowed deeply, letting his hair fall forward around his face, as Manwë said, “Macalaurë Canafinwë—we are ready to hear your petition.”

“I have no petition, my lord,” said Maglor. His voice shook, and he swallowed hard before continuing, “Except that you listen, please, to this song that I have written in honor of my grandfather, Finwë Noldóran.”

“We will listen with pleasure,” said Manwë. Then, “Fëanáro Curufinwë—have you something to bring before us as well?”

“No, my lord,” said Fëanor, bowing as Maglor straightened, though only just deep enough to be exactly proper. “I have come only to hear my son sing.” He stepped away from Maglor’s side to the edge of the ring, near to Aulë’s throne, just within Maglor’s sight. Maglor did not look directly at him, but as he strummed the harp strings he tried to ignore all of the other eyes on him in favor of only his father.

It was impossible, of course, to forget about the Valar, and his fingers slipped on the strings and fumbled the first few notes. He stilled them and looked at Fëanor, who nodded ever so slightly. Maglor did not look away this time, and when he put his fingers to the strings again the music flowed out clear and true. All of Maglor’s heart and mind had been so full of this song for so many months that once he got started the music came easily to his fingers, and the words sprang to his lips, and when he opened his mouth to begin his voice did not tremble or falter; when he closed his eyes he could lose himself in the music.

He began with the stars, as all tales of the Elves began, singing of how they shone over Cuiviénen, its waters and its shores, and the Elves who sang and danced there fearless and free when Finwë had been born. He sang of kin and of friends and of the love of the Elves for the water and for the land, and then of the growing fear and the fell things that lurked in the dark, of narrow escapes and of grief, and the shedding of the first of unnumbered tears; of Finwë growing in strength in body and in power, of his songs that chased away the strange and fell creatures that came hunting—but were not enough to save his father or his brothers, or others lost to the darkness.

The song leaped from the dark to sudden light, with the coming of Oromë and of the Great Journey—of the grief there, too, at parting from those Finwë had loved most, and of losing friends along the way when they chose to turn back, or were lost in shadowy enchanted woods. Maglor sang of the Sea—this had been easy to find the words for—of its vast wildness and of the way the stars glimmered on the surface so that sailing across the waves was like sailing through the heavens when the water blended with the sky on the horizon so you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. He sang too of the delight of all the Elves of their first coming to Valinor, and of the bliss found beneath the Light of the Trees—and then of the grief that found them even there.

He sang of Finwë’s love for Míriel and for Fëanor, and of his yearning for the family he had lost or left behind, and of the deep and abiding sorrow that came with Míriel’s loss; and the love for Indis that was no less than his love for Míriel, and the joy of his daughters and his younger sons as they grew up dancing and laughing into adulthood in the light, fearless and free. He sang of Finwë the king and Finwë the father, the friend, the peacemaker, the doting grandfather and patient teacher, of his stubbornness and his temper—rarely woken but fierce when roused—and of the growing tension in Tirion as the family he had longed for began to splinter apart in spite of all he said or did to try to stop it.

Finally, he came to the Darkening, and his fingers picked out the melody heard in Ekkaia, a rendering of the Third Theme of the Ainulindalë with its deep and heavy grief, until then only a thread in the background but now brought forth as the main theme of the last verses, as he sang of the Trees and their sudden loss—and then of the might of Finwë’s voice as he battled with Melkor himself, standing firm when all others had fled before the horror of the Dark Lord. Finwë had fallen, his body broken, but he had never faltered. This Maglor had learned from the stones of Formenos itself, and he sang their grief into his song as well his own grief, and his father’s grief, and his brothers’ and uncles’ and cousins’ and all others who had known and loved Finwë. He sang of a lonely grave covered in Evermind and hyacinth beside a lake, mist hovering over the waters, golden with the dawn, and glimmering silver under the starlight, as once had the waters of Finwë’s birth. That grief had wound through the whole of the song, but Maglor brought it to the focus at the end, the last verses all lamentation for the lost King of the Noldor, for the missing grandfather and great-grandfather and father, for the friend whose absence was felt at every gathering, whose death had changed the course of the lives of all the Noldor, and of Arda itself—from whom was descended Eärendil who bore the Star of High Hope each evening, and from whom had come the Kings and Queens of Númenor and of Gondor and Arnor, whose grandchildren sat still upon the thrones of the Reunited Kingdom in Middle-earth, carrying on his legacy.

Last of all he sang of Mandos, taking what Aredhel and Aegnor had told him and singing of Finwë lingering in the slowly-emptying halls, watching the tapestries unfurl to tell the story of the world he could no longer touch; he sang of the way Finwë had aided all of his family as they had passed through the halls, ever urging them back toward a life he could never return to, though it left him in the end utterly alone. These words were the hardest, and Maglor’s voice broke on the last line.

Though he had written the song with this performance in mind, Maglor, as he had told Fëanor, had not written into it any plea—on its own it was not meant to persuade or convince the Valar that their statute should be reversed and overwritten. Others had taken up that cause and it had gotten them nowhere. All Maglor wanted was to honor who Finwë had been, and for the Valar to hear him, for them to see what it meant for a family to lose its father and for a people to lose their most beloved king, without even the hope that they had all been promised when they had left Cuiviénen for Valinor: that their loved ones who perished would someday return to them.

When the last notes faded, Maglor realized suddenly that it was raining, clouds having gathered unnoticed while he sang. He did not lift his head. Now that he had stopped singing the fear returned to tie icy knots in his stomach alongside his own grief clogging his throat, and he couldn’t make himself look at any of them, least of all Manwë himself. Instead he bowed deeply again and said into the ringing silence, voice hoarse, “Thank you for hearing me, O Elder King.”

“It was well sung, Prince Macalaurë,” said Manwë. “It has been too long since your mighty voice graced these lands. Welcome home.”

Fëanor stepped forward to make his own bows, and then placed a hand on Maglor’s back as they left the Máhanaxar. As soon as it lay behind them Maglor felt like he could breathe again. He sucked in a breath and bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from starting to cry when he let it out. He had, somehow, not fallen apart before the Valar, and he would not do it now that it was over—not while they were still right there behind him, still watching. The weight of their gaze was like a physical thing on his back. He could fall apart back in Tirion, behind the walls of Curufin’s house where he could just curl up with his cat and let his brothers talk to him and argue with one another until the world felt normal and steady again.

He raised his head, taking another deep breath, inhaling the scent of the rain and of the heather blooming around them, lush purple and bright white. His hair stuck to his temples, and he looked at Fëanor to find that his face was wet not only from the rain. “Atya?” His voice was still hoarse.

“That was beautiful, Macalaurë,” Fëanor said. “It was perfect—and you moved every single one of them to tears. Even the sky itself is weeping.” He gestured at the rain falling lightly but steadily around them. Maglor wrapped his arms around his harp and ducked his head again, unsure of what to say. Then Fëanor said, “Mithrandir?” Maglor looked up to find Gandalf seated on a stone by the path, near where their horses waited. His pipe glowed in his hands, and his dark eyes glinted behind the raindrops sliding off the wide brim of his hat.

“Gandalf,” Maglor said. “What are you doing here?”

“Always so suspicious, Maglor!” Gandalf chuckled. “I came only to lend support to a friend—not that you needed it. That was very well sung.”

“Thank you,” Maglor said.

“You sound rather worn out, however—mind you take care, lest you lose your voice entirely! I look forward to hearing it again come next summer.” Gandalf winked, and rose from his seat to wander off toward the Máhanaxar. Maglor watched him go, frowning a little, momentarily distracted from everything else.

“What’s the matter?” Fëanor asked.

“The last time I saw Gandalf wink at someone, I ended up traveling all the way to Ekkaia and back.”

“I doubt he has such a thing in mind now.” Fëanor picked up the harp case and helped Maglor secure his harp and then the case to his saddle. “Are you all right?”

“For now. I think.” Maglor’s hands were shaking as he fumbled with the straps, until Fëanor took over. All he wanted to do was crawl into a bed and not come out for a hundred years, to hide from whatever might or might not come of this song. “There’s no hiding that I came here, is there?”

“Unlikely,” Fëanor said. He pressed a kiss to Maglor’s temple before going to mount his own horse. “But no one will bother you about it.”

“Have you met the Noldor?” Maglor tried to keep his tone light as he pulled himself into the saddle, but it just came out tremulous and worried instead.

“I have.” Fëanor flashed him a grin anyway. “And they have met me. Here.” He pulled a flask from one of his bags and handed it over. “Mithrandir was right—you need to rest your voice.” The flask contained miruvor, sweet and light. Maglor took a few sips, feeling the warmth of it spread through his limbs. “Valmar isn’t far. We could rest there tonight and return to Tirion tomorrow, if you wish.”

Maglor hesitated. He did not want to enter another city—it would be so hard to do it without being noticed, and when they were noticed, Ingwë would have questions. “Could—could we just go until the rain stops, and camp under the stars again?”

“Of course.”

They did not ride as hard as they had coming from Tirion. Maglor kept replaying his performance in his mind, finding all the little flaws and slips that hadn’t mattered in the moment but now seemed glaring and terrible. Even once the Máhanaxar and Ezellohar were out of sight behind them he felt like he was being watched. The lands around them were too open, too wide and empty. Nothing would happen, he told himself over and over, but couldn’t make himself believe it. Finally the silence became unbearable and he said, “Atya, will you talk to me?”

Fëanor glanced at him. “About what?”

“Anything.”

Anything turned out to be a lot about gem-making and Fëanor’s opinions on the way jewelry styles had changed in the many centuries between his death and his return. Maglor didn’t care about any of that, but his father was as eloquent a speaker as he had always been, even about something so inconsequential, and by the time the rain stopped and the clouds scattered to reveal the glittering stars overhead, Maglor could breathe again, and when they stopped to rest he fell asleep within minutes of lying down.

The peace didn’t last. He woke up in the dark, cold and lost and hunted, and when someone touched his arm he flinched back so hard he fell over into the wet grass. That jolted him awake the rest of the way, and when Fëanor pulled him up and into his arms Maglor didn’t try to fight or pull away. “It’s all right, Cáno,” Fëanor murmured. “I’ve got you.”

Maglor didn’t fall back asleep. He knew what awaited him. When dawn broke they went on; the world was still damp from yesterday’s rain and the grass and flowers sparkled when the sunshine hit them, but Maglor couldn’t quite make himself appreciate the sight. He could feel the exhaustion of his efforts the day before now, and still it felt as though the Valar were watching him—and the worst part of that feeling was that he didn’t know whether it was real or not, because the Valar were far more capable of keeping him in their sights, especially here, than Sauron had ever been in Middle-earth. It was different than the feeling in Lórien, where Maglor had known he was being looked after, but it had never felt like he was being watched. If asked, he wasn’t sure he would be able to explain the difference, only that it made his skin crawl.

Clouds gathered again as they neared Tirion, and it was dark by the time they entered the city. The rain and the gloom did not stop anyone from venturing out into the streets, however, and when someone called out a greeting to him it took all of Maglor’s willpower not to turn and flee back out of the city, out into the wilderness where no one would see him or ask questions or expect anything—

“Cáno?” Fëanor caught his hand as they dismounted, and grooms came out of the stable to take charge of the horses. “What’s wrong?”

He didn’t know how to begin to explain without bursting into tears, and he couldn’t do that out on the street where everyone could see. Maglor just shook his head, keeping his lips pressed tightly together. Fëanor didn’t try to press him, and just led the way back down the street toward Curufin’s house.

Before they reached it the door burst open and Daeron came flying out, barefoot, heedless of the drizzling rain and the puddles on the cobblestones. Maglor raised his head as Fëanor stepped aside, just in time to avoid being knocked over when Daeron crashed into Maglor, throwing his arms around his neck and kissing him soundly. “I’m so sorry, Maglor—I came back as quickly as I could. I never should’ve left you at all.”

“I’m—” Maglor wanted to say something reassuring, but couldn’t make the words come. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too—terribly. But I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere. Come inside.” Daeron took Maglor’s hands and pulled him back to Curufin’s house. Maglor expected to find his brothers crowded into the entryway—all five of them currently in Tirion, since Daeron’s presence must mean that Celegorm had also returned.

Instead he stepped inside to find Maedhros just turning away from speaking to Fëanor. Maglor didn’t have time to say anything or even to do more than step over the threshold before Maedhros pulled him into a very tight hug, almost crushing Maglor against his chest. Suddenly, everything from the moment Eönwë had found him in the hedge maze to then felt like it was crashing down on him at once; it was too much, and Maglor buried his face in Maedhros’ shirt and burst into tears.