A Hundred Miles Through the Desert - Chapter Sixty 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

 

Maglor woke slowly, to heavy blankets and his cat soft and warm against the back of his neck. He lay on his side, curled against someone else—an oddly familiar position, though he couldn’t think why immediately. He did not want to wake fully, and just let himself drift, feeling warm and safe in a way that seemed like a relief even though he couldn’t think of why that was, either.

Then sleep tugged him down again—into a dark place, where he was cornered against cold stone, unable to move as the Eye blazed before him, searching, seeking, never sleeping never even blinking—

He woke again, abruptly, to a hand on his shoulder. “Maglor, it’s me, it’s Daeron. Wake up, beloved.” Maglor blinked his eyes open to find Daeron leaning over him, smiling a little as he traced his fingers down Maglor’s temple. “Good morning,” he said softly.

“Daeron…?” Something felt wrong—that familiar but terrible feeling that this, the soft sunshine and the warmth and the safety, was the dream, and that the darkness had been waking reality.

Sauron had said once, early on in his captivity, that Maglor had not yet truly suffered. Suddenly, Maglor wondered if this was what he’d been talking about. If he closed his eyes and found that Daeron was not real, that he was back alone in the dark and had never really known this—that would break him utterly. He would be nothing but clay in Sauron’s hands to mold as he wished, because none of it would matter, there wouldn’t be anything left of him.

“Daeron?” he whispered again.

“I’m here.” Daeron slid down so they lay each on their sides, facing each other. Daeron’s hands were warm on Maglor’s face, and his lips were soft as he pressed kisses over his cheeks and his mouth. “Do you know where you are?”

“I—no, I—Daeron, please—”

“What do you need?”

“Please be real. Please don’t be a dream. I can’t—if I wake up and you aren’t—”

“Shh, I’m real. I promise.” Daeron kissed him again. “You are in Tirion, in your brother Curufin’s house. He and his wife are expecting triplets this winter. Could you have dreamed that up? Or that Caranthir is to be married? Or that Ingwë is planning the largest feast and gathering Valinor has ever seen? Do not tell me you could dream up as silly a cat as Pídhres.”

Every word helped Maglor breathe a little easier, eased the pounding of his heart in his chest. He closed his eyes and there was nothing there. He took a deep breath, and then another. Without opening his eyes again he whispered, “When did you get back?”

“The same day you left for the Máhanaxar. I would have followed you immediately, but no one thought I’d catch up before you got there.”

“My father was there,” Maglor said, as the feeling of dreaming slipped away. He felt shaky and like he might start crying, but they would be tears of relief. Daeron was real, and so was the bed they were in, and so was his cat, and the sunlight streaming through the window. That was real, not the darkness or the flaming Eye—those had not been real for a very long time.

“Yes, he was.”

Maglor opened his eyes. Daeron was still there, dark eyes soft and glimmering with ancient starlight. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know Celegorm was going to—”

“I’m glad he came to find me. I was growing uneasy about you anyway—and don’t worry about my errands. Beleg and Mablung and Simpalírë will finish for me, and everyone will have heard about the feast by autumn, and Elemmírë will have more than enough singers and performers for whatever she wishes to do.”

“But my brothers can’t always be dragging you away from things just because I have bad dreams sometimes—”

“This was more than just bad dreams—and I’ll always want to abandon whatever I’m doing if you need me, even if it might not always be possible. This time it was.” Daeron kissed him again and this time didn’t let up, like he didn’t want to ever not be kissing him. Maglor didn’t want to not be kissing Daeron, either. For some time they did not speak at all, and by the time someone knocked on the door Maglor was feeling much more awake and much less afraid.

Daeron sighed against Maglor’s mouth and then sat up. “Come in.”

It was Maedhros, bearing a tray. Maglor could smell the tea, and sat up as Maedhros set it down on the desk across the room. “When did you come back to Tirion?” Maglor asked him. Speaking above a whisper made his voice rasp, and he winced.

“Here.” Maedhros brought a mug of tea, sweetened with honey, over. “Ambarussa sent for me as soon as you left. I’m fine,” he added before Maglor could ask. “I got the space and the time I needed. I wouldn’t have come back if I didn’t think I could be here.”

Maglor wasn’t sure he believed that, but he wasn’t really in any position to have an argument about it. So he just sipped his tea and then asked, “Is everyone still here?”

“More or less. Ammë will come see you later, and Ambarussa have taken the girls out and will probably bring something back from Míraen’s bakery. I think Moryo dragged Tyelko out somewhere, too. Curvo and Tyelpë are in their workshop with Maeglin, doing something—I think it has something to do with making a new kind of crystal, but Curvo’s explanation made my eyes cross.”

“Fingon said that too,” said Maglor. “That’s why Maeglin wasn’t at lunch with us the other day.” He sipped his tea, glad of the heat in his throat, and the way it immediately made his voice sound better. “…Do they all know? In Alqualondë, I mean, if Ambarussa sent for you?”

“Yes,” said Maedhros. “Finrod and Aegnor were with me when I got Ambarussa’s message, and Finrod came back to Tirion with me; he’ll want to see you when you’re feeling up to it.” Maglor winced.

“We can all fend off visitors for as long as you want,” Daeron said firmly. “Rundamírë has assured me that no one will cross her if she says no.”

Maedhros sat on the bed so that Maglor was tucked in between him and Daeron, and handed him a piece of lembas. “Here. There are other options if you are feeling hungry, but you should at least eat this. Gilheneth sent it.”

“Does everyone know what I did, then?”

“No one outside the family,” said Maedhros. “But Finrod did have words with Indis over it; he was very upset that it had been asked of you.”

“That,” Maglor sighed, “is why I didn’t want anyone to know.”

“It was going to come out eventually. Please eat, Cáno. No one’s upset with you.”

“Not yet,” Maglor said, but he took a bite of the lembas. It was sweet and light and melted on his tongue—easy to eat, even with no appetite to speak of.

“No one will be upset with you whatever happens,” Daeron said. “And if anyone is, I’ll just tell them off since Maedhros won’t let me go tell off Eönwë.”

“What?” Maglor looked up in alarm. “Why would you—”

“He’s joking,” said Maedhros.

“I am not,” said Daeron. He wrapped his arms around Maglor and kissed his cheek. “But I’m not going to, don’t worry, if only because I have no intention of leaving your side. I just think he’s gone far too long with everyone either being used to him or too afraid or too over-awed of him to speak up when he’s done harm, and I am none of those things. In fact I have several things I would like to have out with him—but it can wait.”

“Please don’t,” said Maglor. “He didn’t—I’m sure he didn’t mean to frighten me like he did.”

“From the sound of it, he did not care,” said Daeron. “It isn't as though it’s difficult for someone like him to cloak himself, or dim his precious radiance for five minutes. You spent the entire winter in company with Melian and did not suffer for it.”

“Was it only that his presence was overwhelming?” Maedhros said. “Or was it something he said? Everyone seems to think it was his words that distressed you.”

The answer was both, but Maglor did not want to talk about it. “He just said that the Valar would hear me, and to come to the Máhanaxar. If some of his words were—were similar to what I’d heard elsewhere, that’s no fault of his. I don’t see how he could have known.”

Maedhros’ look of concern had shifted into a frown as Maglor spoke. “What words were those?” he asked.

He wasn’t explaining well, but he did not want to repeat what had been said in Dol Guldur. He wasn’t even sure he could. “No, it’s not—he was not cruel. His words weren’t mocking, not like—”

“What words, Maglor?” Maedhros was pushing like they’d both pushed at different times in Lórien, like Nienna had sometimes pushed—gently but firmly—early on when they needed to talk about very difficult things that neither of them wanted to give voice to. Maglor had thought they were done with that.

“Please don’t—”

“How are we to help you avoid this happening again if we don’t know what to watch for?”

“It’s not going to happen again,” Maglor said. He’d been caught off guard and had already been nervous—surely that was why he’d panicked. And it would sound so stupid if he tried to explain out loud, even to Maedhros and Daeron.

“You probably thought that it wouldn’t happen at all, before Eönwë spoke to you,” Daeron said.

“It’s not—I’ve been asking everyone to stop calling me a great singer for years, and no one listens. I don’t fall to pieces every time I hear it, and I’m not going to start now.”

“I thought that was just because you don’t think very highly of your own skill anymore,” Maedhros said after a moment, something odd in his voice. “Not because it was something used against you.”

“One brings about the other,” Daeron said quietly. Maglor said nothing. He had been diminished even before he’d been taken by the Necromancer—but no one would believe him if he tried to say so. They would only say that he thought that way because of what had happened to him, but that wasn’t wholly true.

“I don’t want to be great, or whatever anyone else remembers or still expects,” he said finally, after the silence started to stretch and it became clear neither Daeron nor Maedhros would break it. “I just—I love music, and I can’t be me without it, but I stopped caring about the rest long ago.”

Maedhros didn’t seem very pleased with this answer, but he let it go. “What about Ammë?” he asked.

“What about her?”

“She said something that sent you further into a panic—you tried to fight Atya to get away, she said.”

“I did?”

“She’s worried now what will happen if she comes to see you.”

Maglor remembered, vaguely, both of his parents finding him in the hedge maze. He remembered being convinced that it was another trick, like… “Oh, she just—no, she didn’t say anything wrong. I do want to see her. Does she think I don’t—?”

“She doesn’t know what to think.” Maedhros searched Maglor’s face, and Maglor had to turn away, wishing his hair hadn’t been braided back so he could hide his face. “Maglor, when you spoke of false memories before, of the Enemy’s lies—”

“It wasn’t a memory and I knew it was false from the start. I don’t—please don’t make me speak of it. Please.”

“I think that’s enough,” said Daeron. “Anything else can wait, surely.”

“Of course. I’m sorry, Maglor.” Maedhros kissed his temple and rose from the bed. “The house is mostly empty right now, though who knows when everyone will get back. No one’s going to crowd around or hover over you if you come downstairs.”

“All right,” Maglor said. He leaned against Daeron as Maedhros left the room. “They’re definitely going to hover,” he sighed.

“I did warn them not to,” said Daeron. “But we don’t have to go down if you don’t want. I’d be quite happy to spend all day in bed with you.”

“I do need to go down sometime—and I want to see my mother. I just…” The thought of trying to explain why her presence hadn’t helped but had actually made things worse made him feel like he was going to be sick. He didn’t want her to know. Bad enough she’d seen that moment from the outside, when she’d looked for him in the palantír. Bad enough she knew what his worst scars looked like when they were fresh wounds. He did not want her to know what the worst invisible scars looked like, too—or that she had been made into the weapon that dealt them.

“Just what?” Daeron took the empty mug to set it aside.

“I know they just want to help, but I don’t know if I can bear to have them all looking at me. And if I can’t even—if I can’t stand my own family how am I supposed to leave the house? How am I supposed to even think of getting on a stage again next year—”

“That’s months away,” Daeron said. “You only returned last night, Maglor—of course you need to rest, and of course you don’t want eyes on you. They’ll understand.”

“I just—I hate feeling so broken.” He hadn’t actually meant to say that out loud, but at least Daeron was the only one there to hear it. “This shouldn’t happen to me anymore. What was the point of going to Lórien at all if I’m just going to—”

“My love, has no one ever told you that the path of healing is not straight? It is as full of twists and turns as the Girdle of Doriath was long ago, and sometimes you will find yourself back in a thicket you thought you had left behind. I was rather forcefully reminded of this over the winter, and now it seems it’s your turn.”

“This thicket is full of thorns,” Maglor said. “What if—I haven’t looked at my harp yet but I’m not sure I’ll be able to and if I can’t even—”

“You found a way out once,” Daeron said, “and you can do it again—and you do not have to do it alone. Just give yourself time. As for staying up here all day—we can go down sometime later if you decide you want to, rather than because you feel you should—or I can have you all to myself for a full day. I know which one I would prefer.”

It was easy to admit which one Maglor preferred, too. “I…all right. Just—lock the door first.”

Daeron laughed and kissed him before rising to do so. “Of course! We can’t have inquisitive nieces or careless brothers barging in. Now.” He returned to the bed to straddle Maglor’s lap. “Let me show you exactly how much I’ve missed you.”

They did not leave the bedroom at all that day. Maglor had missed spending lazy hours tangled up under the blankets just talking to Daeron, their voices never rising above a whisper as they shared secrets and exchanged news, talking of Daeron’s travels and Maglor’s kittens and all the little details of their lives, laughing quietly at old jokes and making up new ones. Those conversations lasted long into the night, and when Maglor drifted off to sleep it was to Daeron’s lips on his and whispered promises of safety and peace.

The next day he felt less fragile and able to face his brothers, who seemed to have all come to an agreement with one another not to speak of the song or his performance. Instead they just talked about the latest conflicts arising in regard to the feast, and bothered Maglor about how much he did or did not eat. Caranthir, sporting a bandage on his hand, informed Maglor that he wasn’t allowed to leave Pídhres behind ever again. “She is a terror when you’re not here.”

Pídhres, at that moment stretched out on the rug in a sunbeam alongside Lossë and Aechen, twitched an ear.

“She wasn’t that bad,” Curufin said. “It was only when you got back and she thought we were all trying to keep her from you that she got really upset.”

“She just got her claws caught in the rug, and all I did was try to help her get free,” said Caranthir, “and got a nasty scratch for my troubles. I won’t be doing that again.”

Over the next few days the only real excitement was that either Náriel or Calissë broke a vase; Calissë cut her foot on one of the shards, and the fight that erupted between them was the worst that Maglor had yet heard, and was apparently one of the worst Náriel had experienced, if the way she flung herself into Daeron’s arms to cry as though the world was ending was any indication.

“It was an accident, my dear,” Daeron was saying as Celebrimbor came into the parlor. “No one’s in trouble, and I’m sure Calissë’s cut isn’t that bad.”

“It’s not,” Celebrimbor said. He leaned down to kiss the top of Náriel’s head. “And the vase can be fixed, if Uncle Cáno is willing.”

“If your mother wants,” said Maglor.

“It’s one of her favorites—our Aunt Lerinië made it—so yes, she would be very grateful if you can put it back together. I can go get the materials if you write me a list.”

“Of course,” said Maglor, relieved that he wouldn’t be expected to go get anything himself, and then feeling pathetic about being relieved.

“See, love?” Celebrimbor said to Náriel. “No harm done.”

“But Calissë hates me,” Náriel wailed.

“She doesn’t hate you,” said Daeron.

“If you come with me, we’ll get her favorite strawberry sweets,” Celebrimbor said as Maglor got up to go find a piece of paper to write a list. “That’ll set everything to rights. And we’ll get your favorites too.”

The chance at going out with her brother dried Náriel’s tears quickly, though she remained huddled on Daeron’s lap until Celebrimbor was ready to leave, and then when he picked her up she wrapped her arms around his neck and hid her face in his shoulder. “Be back soon,” Celebrimbor said to Maglor and Daeron. “If Atya comes looking, tell him I’ve got Náriel?”

“Of course,” said Daeron, and once they were alone he moved to sprawl himself across Maglor’s lap. “Sometimes,” he said, “I find myself feeling vaguely envious of those who grew up with siblings of a similar age. And then something like that happens and I come to my senses and remember to be grateful that Mablung is so much older than me. And that we didn’t have things like breakable vases when I was that young.”

“If you think this was bad, just wait until the triplets are old enough to break things and get into fights,” said Maglor.

“Sweet Elbereth.”

Nerdanel had arrived just before the incident with the vase, but she and Rundamírë’s mother Calimairë were occupied with Calissë and then with Rundamírë in the nursery, so Maglor did not actually speak to her until after dinner, when most of the household went to the rooftop garden to spend the evening under the stars. Maglor thought he would be able to at least go up onto the roof—it wasn’t like the whole city could see him there—but he lasted all of five minutes before the back of his neck started prickling, and made it only ten minutes more before he felt like he was going to crawl out of his skin if he didn’t hide.

When he fled inside to his bedroom, he left the door ajar since he expected Maedhros or Celegorm to come after him, if Daeron didn’t. When the knock came, though, it was Nerdanel. “Macalaurë? What’s the matter, love?”

He pulled the tie out of the end of his braid and started to unravel the strands, unable to lift his gaze to look at her. “It just—I can’t be outside.”

“Why not?” Nerdanel picked up his comb and tugged his hair out of his hands as she sat behind him on the bed.

“It feels like I’m being watched. I know that I’m not, I just—I need to hide for a while.”

“I see.” Nerdanel tugged the comb gently through some tangles. “Would it help to leave the city? You could go home—not all the way to Imloth Ningloron, but to my house.”

“I’d have to leave this house in order to do that,” Maglor said, unable to entirely mask the bitterness. “I’m sorry. It’s—it will pass. I just don’t know when.”

“Macalaurë, you do not need to apologize, not to me. I think I should be the one apologizing.”

Maglor closed his eyes. So they were going to do this now. “No, you don’t,” he said. “You didn’t—I don’t even remember what you said, now. I hardly knew where or when I was.”

“You thought that I was trying to trick you.” Nerdanel set the comb aside and moved to face him. She took his face in her hands, thumbing away a few tears that had escaped. “How were you tricked before, my love?”

“I don’t want to tell you,” he whispered without opening his eyes.

“You and Maitimo seem to have a lot of things you don’t want to tell me. I do not need your protection.”

“It’s not—it’s not that, exactly. It’s—I wasn’t tricked. Not for more than a moment. I knew it wasn’t real when he—”

“When he what?”

“He tried to put on your face to—I don’t even know what he meant to do. He got it wrong, anyway. It looked like you but it also didn’t look like you.” Maglor still didn’t open his eyes. He couldn’t look at her as he spoke of it. “You saw it. When you told me—in the palantír—you told me that you saw me calling for you. I wasn’t, I just…”

“Oh,” Nerdanel said softly. “That’s why you were so angry.”

Maglor opened his eyes. “Yes,” he said. The anger hadn’t lasted, and he hadn’t been able to do anything with it, but he had been furious at Sauron’s attempt to use his mother against him. “It wasn’t the worst thing that he put into my head,” he said, “but it lingered the longest. I just—I missed you so much, and—” His voice broke, and Nerdanel drew him into her arms. “I don’t think I’ll get lost like that again,” he said when he could master himself enough to speak.

“Can you tell me what it was Eönwë said or did to make you get so lost?”

“He’s just…himself, and I was taken by surprise.” Maglor hoped that Nerdanel would not push like Maedhros had, and she didn’t. She just rubbed a hand up and down his back until his breathing steadied. Whatever the Valar decided to do, Maglor hoped they would send the message to Míriel or to Indis, not to him—or at least that they would not send Eönwë again.

By the time Maglor could sit up and wipe his face, Daeron had come down from the roof. Nerdanel kissed Maglor’s forehead and bid both of them goodnight. Daeron took her place on the bed. “Good tears or bad?” he asked.

“Not good, but—I had to speak to her of it eventually.”

“Of Dol Guldur, you mean?” Daeron asked. Maglor nodded. “I remember you told me one reason you did not wish to see her when you first returned here. Am I right now in guessing this false vision was another?”

“It was. It’s—it’s something I try very hard not to think about these days.”

“Of course.” Daeron wiped the last tears from his face. “Don’t start apologizing for coming inside, either,” he said. “It’s been less than a week—that’s hardly any time at all.”

“How much time must pass before you’ll let me start apologizing?”

“Eternity.” Daeron kissed him softly. “Come to bed. I’ll sing the dreams away.”

After breakfast the next morning, Celegorm followed Maglor back to his bedroom, where he had intended to write to Elrond. “If you ask me if I’m all right,” Maglor said before Celegorm could say anything, “I’m going to dump this inkwell over your head.”

“So that’s a no, then,” Celegorm said. Lossë had followed them, and he picked her up to sit cross-legged on the end of the bed while Maglor sat at the desk. Pídhres jumped up to sniff at Lossë before going to curl up by the pillows. “That’s not what I was going to say.”

“What were you going to say, then?” As he asked the question Maedhros and Caranthir appeared. “If either of you try to ask me how I am—”

“We know, we know,” Caranthir said. “I’m here to make sure you two don’t come to blows again.”

“I wanted to say,” Celegorm said, glaring at Caranthir, “that I’m sorry I didn’t tell you where I was going, Cáno.”

Maglor sighed. He set the pen down and turned in his chair to face Celegorm. “I am glad that you brought Daeron back,” he said, “and I’m glad you’re back, because I missed you too. Just—it didn’t need to be some sort of surprise, or—”

“It wasn’t that,” Celegorm said, “I just didn’t want to fight with you about it.”

“So everyone conspiring to keep secrets from me was supposed to avoid a fight?”

“Told you it was stupid,” Maedhros said mildly. He had his arms crossed and was leaning against the wall by the door. “Though to be fair, when I encountered Mithrandir on the way to Fingon’s I told him that if he wanted to meddle he should go find Daeron.”

“You what?”

“Hang on,” Caranthir said, jabbing a finger into Maedhros’ arm. “You don’t get to scold us for it if you did the same thing!”

“Sending for Daeron wasn’t the stupid part—keeping it secret was.”

“You didn’t even tell me you’d seen Gandalf,” Maglor pointed out. “I had to hear about that from him—and of course he didn't say anything about you asking him to do anything.”

“I also forgot about it once I got to Fingon’s house,” said Maedhros, shrugging. “Anyway, I think asking him to do anything is like asking Pídhres to do something—he’s just as likely to do what you want as he is to do the exact opposite.”

“He did leave the same day Celegorm did,” Caranthir said.

“Daeron, did Gandalf find you before I did?” Celegorm asked as Daeron passed by the doorway.

Daeron paused to blink at him. “No. Stars above, how many people were conspiring to find me?”

“Too many,” Maglor said, and Daeron laughed. “Everyone get out, now. I need to write to Elrond.”

Everyone obliged except Maedhros, who went to sit where Celegorm had been as soon as they were alone. Daeron might have lingered too, except that he had been in the middle of something already. Maglor picked up his pen again, and for a few minutes the only sound in the room was the scratch of the nib over the paper.

Finally, Maedhros asked, “What are you going to tell Elrond?”

“That it’s done—that I went before the Valar and have come back, and that Daeron has returned, and that you’re back from Alqualondë.”

“Is that all?”

“That I’m willing to put in writing? Yes. I’ll tell him everything when next we’re able to speak in person. He’ll be here come wintertime, because Rundamírë has asked Celebrían to be present when the triplets are born.”

Maedhros fell silent again, until after Maglor finished writing the letter and was digging through a drawer for sealing wax. Then he asked, “Is it too much, having us all coming and going all the time?”

“No. I think I’d feel worse if you all started avoiding this house just because of me. But I’m—I don’t know how you’re fending off Finrod or Fingon or whoever else has probably been trying to come see me, but can you keep doing it? I don’t think I can answer their questions yet. I’ll write a few notes to assure them that I came back in one piece, I suppose. And to thank Gilheneth for the lembas.”

“As long as you need,” Maedhros said. “I’m already conspiring with Curvo and Rundamírë about it, but we haven’t actually needed to fend anyone off yet. They’ve all asked after you, and Finrod’s worried, but no one’s going to come bang on the door or anything. Since Atya went with you, they’ve been directing all their questions at him.” He rose from the bed when Maglor grimaced. “He doesn’t mind, and I think he’s glad of the excuse to boast about you a little.” Maedhros kissed the top of Maglor’s head, resting his hand on his shoulder. “I’m glad you didn’t go alone, Cáno.”

“If you had told me two years ago that it would be Atya who went with me, I wouldn’t have believed a word of it,” said Maglor.

“It feels like one of those impossible things Ambarussa like to talk about,” said Maedhros. “Does it make your scars hurt to speak to him?”

“No.” Maglor had no idea when that had stopped. “Seeing Eönwë did, though.”

“Next time, maybe don’t get yourself stuck in a hedge maze.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose. And don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere near that maze ever again.”

“You could have gotten stuck somewhere worse, though,” Maedhros said more seriously. “I’m glad Ammë and Atya were the ones to find you.”

“Me too.”

Maglor wasn’t sure if Fëanor was avoiding him since they’d returned to Tirion, or if he was just busy elsewhere. He came occasionally at mealtimes to Curufin’s house, but didn’t always stay long. Maglor did notice that there was less tension between him and Celegorm—and even between him and Caranthir, even if they did not speak much beyond greetings and farewells. He did speak sometimes to Maedhros, both of them holding themselves very carefully, as though they were walking on ice and weren’t sure whether it was thick enough to hold their weight, and Maglor wasn’t sure what it was they spoke of beyond the weather or whatever Fëanor was working on. And since Maglor was rarely without either Maedhros or Daeron at his side when Fëanor came to visit, he supposed it shouldn’t be that surprising that they hadn’t spoken much.

Eventually, Curufin was able to clear out a small space in his workshop for Maglor to use to fix Rundamírë’s vase. It was far from the windows that looked toward the street, and near the entrance to the forge, so it was often warm. Celebrimbor eventually got everything Maglor needed to make the glues and the lacquers—supplies of all kinds were in high demand and short supply at the moment—and when he set to work he found it quite nice to spend time in the same space as Curufin or Celebrimbor, or both of them, everyone engrossed in their own work and only occasionally feeling the need to fill the silence. Most of what Celebrimbor was doing was on paper—calculations and notes and things for whatever kind of crystal he and Maeglin were experimenting with. Maglor had been surprised to hear about that, because Celebrimbor still did nothing of that kind of work himself—but it seemed that he was taking some tentative steps toward it again, helping to plan while others did the practical work.

One morning Maglor went out after breakfast. No one else was there; Curufin was busy with Rundamírë, and Celebrimbor had his sisters to wrangle. Usually Daeron joined him if the workshop was otherwise empty, but he had letters to write to his family after a bundle of them had been delivered from Taur-en-Gellam, since he hadn’t actually bothered to let anyone know his plans had changed after Celegorm found him. Maglor was carefully measuring out the ingredients for the glue when the door leading out onto the street opened and Fëanor stepped inside. “Good morning, Atya,” Maglor said without looking up.

“Good morning. What are you doing?”

“Fixing the vase that the girls broke the other week.”

“Someone told me that’s an Avarin art form,” Fëanor remarked after watching Maglor mix the glue until it was the consistency he needed, “but I didn’t think you ventured that far east.”

“No, that was Daeron,” Maglor said. “I went south for a while, along the coast of Harad, but didn’t linger very long. I learned this in Rivendell. Ifreth came from the east for the Last Alliance, but all her people were slain, and she lived until after the War of the Ring in Rivendell at Elrond’s invitation. I think she went back after that, though she always liked to be a bit mysterious about where she was going.” He supposed Dringil might know, for they had been very good friends, but he hadn’t ever thought to ask.

“What made you take up clay?”

“When I was well enough to start wandering around, various craftspeople in Lothlórien decided I needed to be making things with my hands. I learned to make hithlain one day, and then another day the potters sat me down and handed me a lump of clay. I could tell you all about the deposits along the banks of the Silverlode and the Anduin too, thanks to them. I made a very simple bowl that afternoon, and then they glazed and fired it for me.”

“Green, with yellow flowers,” Fëanor murmured. He appeared to be paging through Celebrimbor’s notes, but Maglor wasn’t sure he was really seeing what was written there.

“Yes. It was the first thing I had made in…well, I don’t know how long. I hadn’t done much making even before I was caught.” Maglor carefully fitted the first two pieces of the vase together. “I gave it to Eleryn, one of Galadriel’s handmaidens. She was very kind to me when I was there.” Everyone had been so very kind, far more than he had ever expected—from Galadriel to Elrond’s children to the potters and the rope makers. He missed Arwen, suddenly, with a keenness that he hadn’t felt in a long time, as he thought of the clothes she had embroidered with music notes and stars for him. He swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat and focused on the task before him. Grief was just like that sometimes—always waiting to trip you up when you least expected it. “Anyway—I—in Rivendell, at first I couldn’t make myself touch the harp Elrond had found for me, and I couldn’t really make myself carve wood either, so I went and learned bits and pieces of other kinds of things and settled on clay in the end. Ifreth taught me to do this, but I like even more just playing around on the wheel. It’s calming.”

Fëanor abandoned the notes and came to sit on the stool beside Maglor’s, watching him work. He asked questions about the process, and what Maglor had already done and what he would do next. Eventually he ran out of questions, and Maglor finished putting the pieces together—the vase had not been broken into very many small pieces, only a few large ones with some smaller bits missing, holes he had to fill in with the glue to paint over later. As Maglor tucked it away to let the glue dry Fëanor said, “Findaráto asked me this morning when you would be willing to see him.”

“Whenever he likes.” Maglor closed the box and hesitated. He couldn't quite make himself look at Fëanor when he admitted, “I just—it would be better if he came here. It still feels like there are too many eyes on me when I try to go outside.” He had gone up onto the roof with Náriel the day before to play with Aechen and Lossë among Rundamírë’s raised garden beds and potted flowers, but stepping out onto the street still made him dizzy with fear. He hated it.

“I will tell him,” Fëanor said, and when Maglor straightened he pulled him into his arms. “Do you need anything from me, Cáno?”

“No.” Maglor wrapped his own arms around Fëanor and rested his head on his shoulder. “I’ll be all right, Atya. And—thank you. For going with me. I hope you haven’t fought with anyone about it.”

“I am trying very hard not to fight with anyone about anything these days,” Fëanor said, “but in this case Findaráto beat me to it anyway. I still think it was too much to ask of you.”

“If Eönwë hadn't caught me by surprise it wouldn’t have been so bad,” Maglor said.

“But he did, and it was.”

“Well, yes—but that isn’t Indis’ fault, or Grandmother Míriel’s. I knew what I was agreeing to when I said I would do it. I still don’t think I will be the one to move them to change their minds, when no one else has, but it was just—I just had to see it through. It was important.”

“I think you’re wrong, Canafinwë.” Fëanor kissed his temple before drawing back. “You did not see their faces as you sang, but I did. You moved them all, even the Lord of Mandos.”

“Atya—”

“I told you before that Findis believes he’ll return to us one day—I wasn’t able to share that hope, then.” He offered Maglor a very small smile. “I think that might be changing, now.”

Finrod arrived that afternoon with Fingon in tow. Maglor was with Daeron on the roof, sprawled out on the cushions Curufin kept up there and looking for shapes in the clouds and enjoying the warm sunshine against the very faint chill on the breeze that heralded the coming of autumn. “Maglor!” Finrod exclaimed as soon as he stepped onto the roof. “Why didn’t you say anything before?”

“Because you would have reacted exactly how you did,” Maglor said without getting up. “Hello, Fingon. Did Gilheneth receive my thanks for the lembas?”

“She did.” Fingon sat down on the rooftop beside Daeron’s cushion while Finrod dropped down beside Maglor. “Everyone is rather worried about you, since it’s been weeks now and no one has seen you, and by all accounts you haven't left this house.”

“Much of the time he doesn’t leave the bedroom,” Daeron said with a lazy yawn. Both Finrod and Fingon made faces and protested as Maglor laughed, and Daeron went on primly, “What is the matter with you? I was away traveling in the western wilds for several months, and there are many comforts I’ve been eager to indulge since my return. Sleeping far too late in a proper bed is one of them, and Maglor knows I hate to wake up alone.”

“I’m fine, really,” Maglor said, after Fingon got done rolling his eyes. “I’ve been spoiling my nieces and conspiring with my brothers to spoil the new babies later. Finrod, please tell me you didn’t actually go pick a fight with Indis.”

“No,” Finrod said, but he pouted a little as he did so. “Only because she was so reasonable and kind about it, and she’s also worried about you—or she has been, anyway. She left this morning rather unexpectedly. I suppose it’s something to do with next year’s feast that she’s wanted for in Valmar.”

“I got everyone’s notes, and I did reply to them,” Maglor said.

“Yes, but it’s terribly easy to hide the full truth in a letter,” said Fingon, “and you’ve always been very good at pretending to be more cheerful than you really are.”

“Not anymore,” said Maglor. “If you don’t believe me, you can ask Maedhros. Or Daeron.”

“He is very fine,” Daeron said, and Fingon made another disgusted noise. “Maglor, it’s been far too long since I last kissed you. Come here.”

“It’s been ten minutes,” Maglor said without moving.

“As I said, far too long.”

“You two are awful,” Finrod said, smacking Maglor’s arm. “All right, we believe you—you’re fine, and I suppose if you were to hide out anywhere it’s best that you chose Tirion instead of somewhere absurdly remote and hard to find.”

“I tried that already,” Maglor said. “Decided I didn’t much like it, in the end.”

“Did Maedhros tell you what we’re planning for next summer?” Fingon asked.

“Besides the feast? I know your father’s gotten roped into it.”

“Oh, he’s handed all that off to Gil-galad, who’s very happy to have something to do. Apparently he and Ingwion worked well together during the War of Wrath and are delighted to do it again now, with fewer weapons and no battles to worry about. But I meant our own miniature Mereth Aderthad while everyone is gathered for the greater feast. The whole House of Finwë, I mean—our grandmothers and our parents and all of us and our cousins and our children. It was Finrod’s idea.”

“We’ve never done it before, gathered all of us into one place,” said Finrod, “not since there were far fewer of us long before the Darkening.”

“I spoke to Angrod and Orodreth of doing something like that,” said Maglor, “but I thought it would be just us cousins.”

“They made the mistake of telling Finrod, and he’s taken the idea and run with it,” laughed Fingon. “But it is a good one.”

“How’s that going to work when not a few of us are likely to start fighting each other?” Maglor asked.

“I don’t think we have to worry about anyone getting into a fight if our grandmothers are there,” said Finrod cheerfully. “No one wants to disappoint either Indis or Míriel, and that should keep even your brothers on their best behavior. And if that fails, Huan can sit on someone.”

“Are those of us not yet married into the family invited?” Daeron asked.

“Of course!” said Fingon. “As though we could keep you away.”

“You couldn’t,” Daeron said, “but it’s easier on everyone if you don’t have to try.”

Finrod and Fingon stayed a few hours longer, and before they left Finrod pulled Maglor aside, growing serious. “Maybe no one else chooses to remember how afraid you’ve been,” he said in a low voice, “but I do. Are you really all right?”

“Yes,” said Maglor. “Or—well, I will be. Everyone does remember, Finrod. Don’t think I’m not being smothered with care, here. It’s hard to shake the feeling of being watched, but it will pass.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Finrod asked. “Or Galadriel, or…?”

“No. I just need a little more time, and to not be treated like I’m made of glass.”

“All right, all right.” Finrod searched his face for a moment. “I’ve read the song, unfinished and finished. I’ll want to ask you a thousand questions about it—but that can wait. It’s beautiful, Maglor. Whatever comes of it, I think our grandfather would be very proud of you.”

Maglor’s throat went tight, and he swallowed several times before he was able to reply. “Thank you.”