A Hundred Miles Through the Desert - Chapter Seventy 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 / Next Chapter

Elemmírë had split the history of the Eldar into sections according to time and place, and assigned the Third Age to Maglor to arrange alongside a few guidelines, which lined up well with what he had already been thinking of doing. “This will be the most diverse, I think,” she said. “You said before we must not forget Men or Dwarves or Halflings.”

“Lucky for us, we will have a dwarf in attendance,” said Maglor. “He won’t be here to rehearse, but anyone from Imloth Ningloron can fill in then.”

“I’ll leave you to sort it all out,” Elemmírë said, smiling at him. That smile faded into seriousness though as she went on, “But before I let you get on with it—Macalaurë, will you not tell me what took you to the Máhanaxar, and why you are so reluctant to speak of it?”

They were not exactly alone; Ilcalamo and Elmána were sitting quite close by, though Maglor wasn’t sure whether they were eavesdropping or not. “My grandmother asked me to write that song for my grandfather,” he said, keeping his own voice quiet, “and…she and Lady Indis wished for me to take it before the Valar, before I sang it anywhere else. It was meant to be something to make the Valar understand—they have been asking them to reverse their statute for many years now. This song is—it’s why they have been asking, if you know what I mean.”

Elemmírë frowned a little. “It is no small thing to ask the Valar to undo a judgment. It was not done lightly, you know, when they—”

“I know. But I did not feel that I could refuse, and—and just because they did not do it lightly does not mean they did not make a mistake. Please do not speak of it to anyone else, though—it’s no secret anymore that I went, but I don’t want to spend all summer having to explain myself. It was—” He stopped, trying to find the right words. “I’m very different from what I was when I was your student, Elemmírë. I can’t—I do not find it easy now to get up onto a stage before an audience, and going before the Valar was hardest of all.”

“You have been singing every evening these past weeks with no trouble.”

“Singing in company with others isn’t the same thing, especially when we’re all just doing it for fun. Getting on that stage later this summer will be much harder. I can do it, and I will, but—” He didn’t know how to explain. Elemmírë was a performer, just as Daeron was, just as Maglor had once been. She thrived before an audience—and unlike Daeron, she did not have the knowledge to really understand why Maglor couldn’t, anymore.

Elemmírë leaned forward, reaching up to cup his face in her hand, and to brush her thumb over his lips and the scars there. “Does it have to do with these?”

“Yes.” Maglor had asked Finrod to field questions for him, and he knew that the story was spreading. The looks of pity sent his way were grating, but better than having to speak of it himself.

“I will not ask you to get onto that stage if you can’t or do not want to, Macalaurë.”

“I do want to,” Maglor said. “This is as important as my going before the Valar was—this song cycle of yours, telling all our story from the beginning to now. I want to be a part of it. Just—I might have to slip away for a while after I do get up there.”

“I cannot pretend to understand, but I can make sure you have what you need. Is there anything you’re lacking?”

“No. I’m all right, really—and if I start panicking Daeron knows how to talk me down.” Out of the corner of his eye Maglor saw Ilcalamo and Elmána exchange a glance. The Macalaurë they remembered hadn’t known the meaning of the word panic. “The only song I’m really worried about being able to get up and perform is the one for my grandfather, just because it’s closest to my heart—but I intend to sing it with my cousins this time, and that makes it much easier.”

“Well, good—but tell me if something changes, please?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And I don’t mean just because of all of this,” Elemmírë said, gesturing around them. “I mean that I want to know that you’re all right.”

“I am all right,” Maglor said again, “but thank you.”

Elemmírë left to speak to someone else, and Maglor pretended not to notice his old friends watching him as he read through the notes she’d given him. As he picked up his pencil to write down a few of his own before he took them to Lindir, Ilcalamo came to sit beside him. “Since when does Prince Macalaurë of Tirion panic in front of an audience?” he asked, his tone just a little too serious to be mistaken for teasing.

“He didn’t,” Maglor said without looking up. “But Maglor of Imloth Ningloron sometimes does.”

“Do you really prefer Maglor?” asked Elmána. “It sounds so—”

“Sindarin?”

“It’s not as pretty as Macalaurë.”

Maglor shrugged. “I’m not very pretty anymore either.”

Daeron had come up behind him unnoticed, and lightly smacked the back of his head. “Don’t speak nonsense,” he said.

“It’s not nonsense, I’m covered in—”

“It’s nonsense,” Daeron repeated, and plucked the papers from Maglor’s hands so he could sit in his lap. “Good afternoon, Ilcalamo and—Elmána, is it?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Elmána smiled at him. “Good afternoon, Daeron. Where is Simpalírë?”

“Introducing my flock of songbirds to all their peers from Alqualondë. At least one of them is going to be very disappointed to learn that Pirineth is to be married next year.”

Maglor laughed. “Really—Glossvir finally asked her?”

“Yes, just before they left home. But why are you over here debating whether or not Maglor sounds as nice as Macalaurë?”

“I would rather know why you speak of Macalaurë as though the name belongs to someone else,” said Ilcalamo.

“Because it feels that way, sometimes,” Maglor said. “I went—oh, six thousand years and more without hearing or even thinking about the name Macalaurë. I was Maglor all that time—or not even that, because there was no one around to call me by any name at all.”

“That sounds awful,” said Elmána. Maglor shrugged, which just made both Elmána and Ilcalamo look even more horrified. Daeron put his arm around Maglor, and leaned harder against him. “What then brought you back among your own people?”

“I’m sure you’ve heard the story from Findaráto by now,” said Maglor.

“We thought surely he was making it up,” said Ilcalamo. “It was too horrible—”

“If he or I were to make something up, it would be less horrible,” Maglor said. “In fact I have made up less horrible stories, but I think everyone here is a bit too old to actually believe that I ran afoul of an enchantress in the northern wastes and had to be rescued by a pair of talking beavers.”

“Talking beavers?” Ilcalamo repeated as Daeron laughed. The distraction was successful, and no one said anything more about Maglor’s appearance or how different he was or was not from when they’d known him in their youth. He soon escaped to go find Lindir, and then to round up everyone from Imloth Ningloron and Avallónë to settle who would sing what and in what order. Lindir, as he and Maglor had previously agreed, swiftly took charge of things, and Maglor just jotted down notes and was happy to be more or less forgotten except when someone insisted there was a particular song he should play the harp for, or sing himself.

Preparations continued apace. All around them the tent city continued to grow. Banners were raised and glittering strings of crystal lamps—like the ones that lit the interior of the tents, but larger—were strung all about. In daylight they were just pretty decorations. At night they glowed like many-colored stars, so by both day and night the whole place shimmered. By day all the singers and musicians practiced, groups of them taking to the stage when it was ready so that they could all start to hear what Elemmírë’s great song cycle would truly sound like. Maglor got up and sang alongside Finrod and Daeron, and sometimes by himself—and it was no worse than it had been when he got up before the court of Taur-en-Gellam.

The hunters arrived to great fanfare, and on their heels came cooks and bakers—and dancers and hostlers and falconers and too many others for Maglor to keep track of, alongside the first of those who came just to enjoy the feast and not to help prepare for it. “Maglor!” Elrohir flung himself into Maglor’s arms when he and Elladan found him. Huan had already come to say hello, and Maglor was still trying to wipe the slobber off of his face. “It feels like we haven’t seen you in ages!”

“I’ve missed you too,” Maglor said, releasing Elrohir with one arm to draw Elladan in as well. “How was the hunt?”

“Marvelous! Oromë himself joined us partway through. He’s not here, but I think there are still Maiar roaming about.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” Maglor said. “Would you like to get up before everyone later this summer to sing that song Bilbo wrote about your grandfather?”

Elladan laughed. “I would like nothing better!”

“Just tell us where and when!” Elrohir added.

“Did you know Ada made Bilbo sing it for our grandfather when they first met?” Elladan asked. “Bilbo was horribly embarrassed, but Grandfather Eärendil thought it was wonderful.”

“Yes, that sounds right,” Maglor laughed. “I’m glad he took no offense to it, because I wasn’t about to leave it out of the songs this summer. Lindir is already spreading around the song about the Man in the Moon come down to get drunk. I’m sure you’ll hear ten different versions of it tonight alone.”

“You seem well,” Elrohir said quietly, when Lindir himself came up and Elladan turned to greet him.

“I am,” Maglor said, and kissed his temple. “I promise, I’m fine. I really have missed you, though.” Maglor glanced over his shoulder, and waved to Tinwelúto and Mornarusco. “I’ve been reuniting with all sorts of old friends here. Come meet them.”

Some days later in the evening, during an impromptu round of dancing, Cucuanis sat down beside Maglor, who was using Pídhres and the hedgehogs having curled up on his lap as an excuse not to join in. “So those are Master Elrond’s sons?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“They seem very fond of you.”

“I’m very fond of them,” Maglor said, watching Elladan spin Albethiel around. Elrohir was dancing nearby with Aredhel. “And their father.”

“How did that come about?”

“Surely you’ve heard the tales.”

“I would like to hear the one you tell.”

“I would not tell it any differently. Love grew between them, as little might be thought. That was all I could really give them, after everything that had happened, and—” He shrugged. “It was Elladan and Elrohir who found me in Dol Guldur after the Enemy was driven out, and they and their sister who took care of me while I regained my strength in Lothlórien.”

“Where is their sister now? I’ve not heard anything of a sister.”

“Of course you have—Arwen Undómiel. They’re halfelven, Cucuanis. They were given the same choice that Elrond and Elros received, and Eärendil and Elwing before them. Arwen chose as Elros did.”

“Oh.” Cucuanis frowned. “But I don’t understand why…”

“Because you aren’t halfelven. You do not have to understand.”

“Ilcalamo said that you speak of those lands as though you still miss them greatly. Yet it seems to me they caused you nothing but pain and grief.”

“That’s not true. The joy outweighs the pain—I would much rather have known Elros and Arwen than not,” Maglor said. “Even when I was alone—it’s easy to think of it as just misery and loneliness, but it wasn’t. There are things only I have ever seen, places only I have walked. The world is wide and beautiful and wondrous. Of course I miss it. That doesn’t mean I’m not also glad to be here.” He looked up then, and saw Daeron joining a ring of dancers with Mablung and Belthond, eyes bright, braids unraveling. “I’m very, very happy to be where I am now.”

“You know, we used to laugh about how none of us ever expected you to fall in love—not with anything that wasn’t music.”

“I love lots of things that aren’t music.”

“But you have only ever been in love with music—and apparently with Daeron, though I wonder if that’s not really the same thing.”

Maglor laughed. Daeron glanced his way, and for a moment Maglor was back at the first Mereth Aderthad, his heart skipping a beat the first time he saw Daeron flushed and out of breath from dancing and luminous under the stars. “It’s more than just music,” he said to Cucuanis.

“Oh? What is it then, for the two mightiest singers of the Eldalië?”

“I’m not that mighty anymore,” Maglor said before he could think better of it. Ignoring the way Cucuanis frowned he said, “It’s—well, music is a large part of it because it’s how we both understand ourselves and the world. But it’s also…oh, I don’t know. I’ve never met anyone else who I’ve felt that I knew, or who knew me, so immediately. It’s so much more than—anything I could say with words, really.” He watched the dance come to an end, and as Daeron broke away to come join Maglor on the grass he added, pitching his voice so Daeron could hear as he approached, “He’s also rather nice to look at.”

“Are you talking about me, or should I be jealous?” Daeron sat down next to him.

“Of course he’s talking about you,” Cucuanis said, rolling her eyes as Maglor leaned against Daeron’s side. “Ugh, you two are worse than Ilcalamo and Tinwelúto.”

“Do you remember the dancing at the Mereth Aderthad?” Maglor asked Daeron. “You had pearls in your hair then.”

“And you wore rubies and garnets. I wish I still had those pearls. They were my favorites.” Daeron sat cross-legged, and smiled when Annem went to curl up in his lap. “We’re expecting all the high and mighty folk any day now, aren’t we?”

“King Ingwë will arrive soon with King Nolofinwë and all the lords of Valmar and Tirion—and I believe King Olwë of Alqualondë will be with them,” said Cucuanis. “I do not know when your people will arrive, or the folk from the west.”

“Very soon afterward, I should think—if they do not all come at once,” said Daeron. People had been streaming into the tent-city for days. Everything was nearly completely built. Maglor almost couldn’t believe the time had come at last for all they’d been talking of and working toward. “Has Mithrandir arrived yet?”

“Who?”

“I think we’d know if he had,” said Maglor, laughing a little. “He was one of the wizards who went to Middle-earth,” he added to Cucuanis. “He still goes about in that guise—an old man with a long grey beard and ridiculous eyebrows.”

“Smelling of pipe weed and interfering in everyone’s business,” Daeron added.

“What happened to the others that went?” Cucuanis asked.

“Radagast’s real task began when the war ended,” Maglor said. “He stayed to tend to the lands and the forests as they recovered from all that Sauron had done—especially Mirkwood, though I know he intended also to see the Morgul Vale cleansed as soon as he could. Saruman…fell. He was slain in the very last battle of the war.”

“The Blue Wizards remained in the east to help the rebuilding efforts there,” said Daeron, “but I do hope they return west someday—I know Alatar at least greatly desires it, and I would like to see them again.”

Before they retreated to their tent that night, Daeron insisted that they walk down to the lake, around to the opposite side from where the stage had been built. It was quiet there, away from the festivities. Frogs and crickets sang their own choruses, and the water lapping against the shore kept gentle time. The moon had not yet risen, and stars glimmered on its surface, bringing to Maglor’s mind Maedhros’ painting of Cuiviénen. “Have you listened to the water lately?” Daeron asked. “To the Music in it?”

“No, but I don’t think I hear the same things you do anyway.”

“I am not quite sure what it is that I have been hearing, but there is something different, something lovely—and I dreamed of you last night. You stood by the Sea and you were weeping—but then your tears turned to diamonds as they fell, and when the sun came out it was as though your hands were filled with glittering stars, and the foam glimmered around your feet like pearls.”

Maglor stopped walking to stare at Daeron. “That’s—what does that mean?”

“I don’t know.” Daeron smiled and leaned in to kiss him. “But I woke feeling as though something is going to happen, something wonderful—sorrow turning all to joy and wonder—and soon. What if we got married?”

“What?” Maglor couldn’t help but laugh. “Is that what you think the dream was about?”

“No, but it’s something wonderful isn’t it? We could do it right now—we only need ourselves and Ilúvatar and the stars.”

“Someday, you said.” Maglor wrapped his arms around Daeron’s waist, as Daeron’s went around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. “Someday when there aren’t a dozen other important things all happening at once, and when we don’t have to be doing a dozen things at once.”

“So maybe next summer,” Daeron said, and they both laughed. “No, I understand—and you’re right. We don’t need anything but ourselves, but it is something I want to share with everyone else, and when we’re not all distracted by feasts and songs and babies and who knows what else. It can wait a few more years.”

“Just a few,” Maglor said softly. “Maybe until the triplets grow up a little—but we’ve done enough waiting, you and I.”

“I can wait for anything until the end of time as long as I can do it at your side.” Daeron rested his forehead against Maglor’s. “Should we run away to get married like your brother, or should we allow our various and numerous relations to argue about what sort of ceremony we should have? There are a few differences between Noldorin and Sindarin traditions, you know.”

“We shouldn’t deny our various and numerous relations the opportunity to argue over us,” Maglor said. “I don’t care, as long as everyone is there and no one actually argues on the day itself.”

“I’ve met your family, my love—I fear there’s no chance of avoiding that.” Daeron laughed and kissed him again. “Do you remember when you told me you felt as though you couldn’t make plans for the future? And here we are, doing just that.”

“I feel like I’m finally standing on solid ground,” Maglor whispered. “I can see what’s in front of me—and it no longer seems as though it’s going to break if I reach for it.”

“Are you still afraid?”

“No,” Maglor said, and realized as he spoke that it was true. He was nervous, but he was not afraid—not of anything that might happen that summer, or of anything that would happen in the future. “No, I’m not. I’m excited.”

But of course events immediately conspired to prove him wrong. The next morning Maglor was idly strumming his harp while listening to Pirineth and Albethiel debate what instruments would be best to play for their performance of the first canto of the Leithian when Glossvir interrupted. “I think someone’s looking for you, Maglor.”

“Hm?” Maglor looked up and saw Eönwë speaking to Elemmírë, who gestured in Maglor’s direction. He looked much the same as he had when Maglor had seen him in the hedge maze, though he did not shine so bright—he was not as tall, and his presence was not so blinding or overwhelming. At first glance one might mistake him for an elf, a pale-haired Vanya from Valmar, barefoot and clad in pale blue robes. Even still, Maglor’s fingers froze on the strings. Beside him Pídhres hissed quietly.

“What’s the matter with Pídhres?” Pirineth asked. Then, “Maglor, are you well? You look like you’re going to faint.”

“I’m—” Maglor swallowed hard, and tore his gaze from Eönwë as he got to his feet. “Where is Daeron?”

“Right here.” Daeron stepped up beside him. “What’s wrong?” he asked softly.

“Eönwë is here. I don’t—I can’t—”

“Is that him, speaking to Elemmírë?”

“Yes, but—”

“Oh, do you hear that?” Daeron said in a normal tone of voice. “I think my uncle is calling us. Best not keep him waiting!” He grabbed Maglor’s hand and pulled him away, back toward the sleeping quarters which were mostly empty at this time of day. Maglor followed without hesitation, relief threatening to choke him as they passed out of Eönwë’s sight. Once they were back at their own tent he set his harp down and buried his face in his hands. Pídhres twisted herself around his ankles.

“At least he’s cloaked himself—maybe not for your benefit in particular, but it’s something,” Daeron said. He tugged Maglor’s hands away from his face. “What is it?”

“I just—” Maglor shook his head. “I don’t know. He seemed to be looking for me, but I don’t—I don’t know why.”

“Easy enough to find out,” said Daeron. “And you aren’t alone this time. I’m right here.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—”

“Don’t apologize. If he knows what’s good for him, Eönwë is the one who will be apologizing. And if not, I’ll know why.”

“Daeron, please don’t—”

“What’s the worst he can do to me, anyway?”

“He’s Manwë’s own herald—”

“What can Manwë do? Scold me? Send me into exile?” Daeron’s eyes glittered, harder than Maglor was used to seeing them. “This is meant to be a time of joy and celebration. The very least that they can do is leave you be. I’m not afraid of him—I don’t care if he doesn’t like what I have to say.”

“I’m—I’ll be fine, I just—”

“It’s only partly to do with you, beloved.” Daeron took Maglor’s face in his hands and kissed him. “I have some questions I would like Eönwë to answer that have been weighing on my heart for some time. How badly he frightened you is no small part of why I wish to have it out, but it isn’t all of it. But what do you need right now?”

“To hide,” Maglor admitted, hating that he needed it, but glad that they had this small space to themselves. “Just for a little while, until I can—I don’t know, catch my breath.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do—as long as you need.”

They curled up on the bed, Daeron wrapping himself around Maglor, who buried his face in Daeron’s chest until he felt like he could breathe without shaking. It had been months but it still felt too soon to be even thinking of speaking to someone like Eönwë again. Their conversation was quiet, talking of nothing more than the birds Daeron had seen by the lake that morning and of the comings and goings of the hedgehogs. Pídhres curled up against Maglor’s side, warm and soft. Outside people passed by, laughing or talking, sometimes shouting to one another, even the loudest noises comforting in their normalcy.

Lunchtime came before very long, and brought Finrod and Aredhel seeking them. “What’s wrong?” Finrod asked as they ducked into the tent after Daeron called them in.

“Eönwë is here,” Daeron said.

“I saw him half an hour ago, yes,” said Aredhel. “Dozens of Maiar are wandering about, and before the summer is out I’m sure we’ll be visited by the Valar themselves.” Maglor shuddered. “What’s the matter? I’m sure Eönwë isn’t here for you in particular, Macalaurë.”

“He seemed to be, earlier,” said Daeron.

“Better to get it over with then, Maglor,” said Finrod. “The sooner he delivers whatever message he has for you, the sooner you can stop thinking about it.”

“I know.” Maglor sat up. “I know I’m being ridiculous—”

“You are not,” Daeron said.

“What’s so frightening about Eönwë?” Aredhel asked, looking between the three of them with a frown.

“When last I saw him—before he spoke to me in Tirion, I mean—it was—just after the War of Wrath,” Maglor said. Aredhel just looked at him blankly. “It was…”

“I’ll tell you about it later, Irissë,” said Finrod. “It doesn’t much matter—Eönwë at his most impressive is also Eönwë at his most overwhelming. Someone should tell him—”

“I will, given half a chance,” said Daeron.

“Please don’t both of you try to—” Maglor began.

“Don’t worry,” Finrod said with a smile. “I’m happy to leave all of that to Daeron.”

When they stepped out of the tent they found Huan waiting. He licked up the side of Maglor’s face, tail wagging hard enough to knock Aredhel into Finrod. “Oh stop,” Maglor spluttered, trying and failing to push Huan away. Pídhres climbed her way up to his shoulders and batted at Huan’s nose. He snorted and shook himself. Then he raised his head, ears going up, and at the same time Pídhres hissed and tried to hide under Maglor’s hair. He followed Huan’s gaze to see Eönwë making his way between the tents. This time he was better prepared, and didn’t immediately feel the need to flee, but it felt like his heart had risen into his throat to stay there and choke him. He reached for Daeron, who gripped his hand tightly.

“Well met, Lord Eönwë,” said Finrod with bright cheerfulness as he stepped forward to bow only low enough to be perfectly polite, while putting himself in between Maglor and Eönwë. “Are you lost? These are only sleeping quarters, with nothing very interesting happening, especially at this time of day.”

Eönwë stopped and bowed—to Maglor, not to anyone else. “Prince Macalaurë, well met.”

“My lord,” Maglor said, not bothering to hide his wariness, just glad that his voice didn’t shake.

“It has been brought to my attention that I was—careless—when last we met, and caused you undue distress. That was not my intent, and I have come to apologize. I am very sorry.”

Maglor blinked. “Thank you,” he said, not knowing what else to say. He had not actually expected such an apology—not from Eönwë, of all people.

“Is that all you have to apologize for?” Daeron asked as Eönwë straightened.

“Daeron,” Maglor whispered, but Daeron ignored him.

“Have I caused you some offense, Master Daeron?” Eönwë asked.

“That depends,” said Daeron. “Is it true the tales I have heard—that you had Sauron Gorthaur within your grasp after the War of Wrath, and yet let him go?”

Eönwë’s expression remained placid, but Maglor exchanged a glance with Finrod, whose eyes had gone very wide. Whatever they had expected Daeron to say, it had not been that. Aredhel crossed her arms, looking very interested in whatever Eönwë’s answer was.

The answer, when it came, reminded Maglor of calm waters that hid strong and dangerous currents under the surface. “At the time I had little reason to believe he was insincere in his repentance. I extended the same mercy to—Sauron—that I had extended to others.” His gaze flicked to Maglor, who did not shrink back only because Daeron’s grip on his hand tightened.

“Is that what you call it?” Daeron snapped. “Mercy—to send someone away to find nothing but death and suffering rather than to take them into custody to prevent it? Is that not cruelty? Do you truly call it mercy to send the greatest servant of Morgoth himself away so that he might or might not return later of his own accord? Is that mercy, Lord Eönwë, or is it folly?”

“Daeron,” Maglor hissed, as Eönwë drew himself up a little taller, but Daeron also seemed to have grown in stature, eyes flashing with the light of ancient stars.

“You were not there, Child of Doriath,” Eönwë began.

Daeron interrupted him, as Maglor thought no one had ever dared interrupt Eönwë before. “I am a child of Middle-earth, just like all the children of Eregion who perished when that fair realm burned, and of Númenor who drowned when that island foundered; just like the children of Rhûn and of Harad who were tricked or stolen from their families and pressed into unwilling service in the name of the Lord of Mordor, just like the children of the Greenwood or Gondor or the Lonely Mountain who suffered and died at his hands and those of his servants. Just like Frodo Baggins, who would have never had to leave the comforts of his home to lose his very self in the Cracks of Doom if you had not thought it merciful to allow the Deceiver to go free with nothing but empty promises!”

Eönwë stayed silent for a moment, as though to be sure Daeron was done. “As I said,” he said finally, “you were not there. Even now I do not believe his repentance then was wholly feigned—and I had not the power to pass judgment as you wish I had. There were also many other tasks that needed my attention, and so I could but trust to the word of one who I had once known well in the time before Time to come to Aman as I bid. He was not always what he became, and I then still hoped he would return to us. I was wrong—terribly wrong—and for that I am deeply sorry.” He bowed, this time to them all, and without waiting for a reply he took his leave.

For several minutes the four of them stood in silence. Then Aredhel turned to Daeron. “I knew I liked you,” she said.

Daeron had been glaring at Eönwë’s back. Now he smiled back at Aredhel, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Someone needed to say it,” he said.

“He was merciful, Daeron,” Maglor said softly. “When we fled—we would have been slain if he had not stopped them. Maedhros was not going to surrender.”

“You could have,” Finrod said, equally softly.

“I know. But I was going to follow Maedhros to whatever end found us,” Maglor said. “It had nothing to do with the Oath, I just—I couldn’t bear to be parted from him.”

“You were parted, though, all the same,” Daeron said, “and I do not think you would have been if Eönwë had made different choices.”

“Daeron—”

“It isn’t worth debating now,” said Aredhel. “There are dozens and dozens of choices we all made that should have been different—but they weren’t, and there’s no changing any of it now.”

“That is true,” Daeron said, “but I doubt Eönwë has ever been given much cause to question his choices, not the way that we all have. Better late than never.”

Finrod sighed. “Perhaps. Well, you’ve said your piece, so let’s go find some lunch and try to forget about—all of that.”

Maglor and Daeron trailed behind Finrod and Aredhel. “I didn’t know you were that angry,” Maglor said quietly after a few minutes.

“I didn’t either, until I saw him today. I read the story—oh, I don’t remember when. Sometime soon after I came here, after you had gone to Lórien. I suppose it’s been stewing somewhere in the back of my mind ever since.” Daeron stopped and threw his arms around Maglor. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice muffled by his arms around Maglor’s shoulder. “I didn't want to distress you, I just—”

“I’m not distressed, I’m worried about you.” Maglor ducked his face into Daeron’s hair. He smelled of sun-warmed grass. “You just—you didn’t have to defend me. Not what I was then—”

“You were afraid and in pain and—oh, I know you did awful things—I spent thousands of years being furious at you about them—but I know you too. It should not have ended the way that it did. There could have been mercy and judgment, both, that did not end with Maedhros dead and you in exile.”

“Maybe,” Maglor said, “but Aredhel is right. There’s no use dwelling on it now. The time for such judgments is passed.”

“I know that.” Daeron drew back. He was dry-eyed, but still terribly serious. “I just—I hate to see you still so frightened. By anything.”

“I’m not frightened now,” Maglor said. “And that’s because of you.”

“Are you two coming?” Aredhel called.

“Yes, we’re coming,” Daeron called back. He kissed Maglor and took his hand. “Unless you want to go back to our tent?”

“No. I’m all right, really. Eönwë said what he wanted to say to me—and I really didn’t expect him to apologize—and there’s no reason for him to seek me out again.”

“He needs to stop appearing and taking you by surprise.”

“I don’t think he intended to either time, and this time I think he was actually trying not to.”

“You’ve defended him every single time, have you noticed?” Daeron said as they started to walk again. “You don’t have to—you can actually agree with the rest of us that he’s done you harm.”

“It’s not his fault I’m apparently very easy to surprise and overwhelm these days.” Maglor dropped his gaze to the grass at their feet. “I know what it looks like when someone like that means me harm, and Eönwë never has—not even when he let us go with the Silmarils. Of course I would rather he be more careful, but—oh, I don’t know. They can’t all be like Gandalf.”

“They could stand to learn a thing or two from him.”

“Please don’t say that where he can hear you.”

Daeron laughed quietly. “You know what I mean. Will you be able to get up on the stage this afternoon? You’re to sing Frodo’s lay with Lindir.”

“I’ll be all right.”

When they arrived for lunch they found Simpalírë with his parents. “Amil, Atar,” Daeron said, surprised, when they turned to greet him. “I did not know you were coming this early.”

“Are Netyalossë and Vinyelírë here too?” Simpalírë asked.

“Yes, but they’re busy getting the children settled,” said Escelírë. “Traveling with three small children—one of whom is an infant—is quite a lot of effort.” She leaned in to kiss Maglor’s cheek. “It’s good to see you too, Macalaurë.”

Maglor blinked, startled, but wasn’t able to reply before she was already turning away to answer another of Simpalírë’s questions—and before a pair of children ran up, followed by two men that Maglor had not yet met.

“Those are Vangwion and Yúlawë,” Daeron whispered to him, “Vinyelírë and Netyalossë’s husbands.”

“Do you like them?”

“I only met them last fall, but they’re nice enough. I quite like my niece and nephew—Calindë is nearly the same age as Calissë, and Orolëo is a little older. I think they’ll get along well with your nieces.”

“Do you think your parents will get along with mine?” Maglor asked.

“I can’t imagine them not getting along with Nerdanel,” said Daeron. “My aunt and uncle are good friends with her already, as you know. I’m afraid I have no idea what they’ll make of your father. He’s rather…well, he’s Fëanor.”

“True,” Maglor said, managing a smile.

“They like you, though—last winter did a great deal to bring them around, and Simpalírë has been speaking highly of you, too.”

It did not take long for Finrod and Aredhel to be called over to be introduced, and of course Finrod, who had also grown up in Alqualondë, could put anyone at ease in moments. They sat down when Netyalossë and Vinyelírë—with her baby strapped to her chest—joined them, and it was a much happier meal than Maglor might have expected. Even Netyalossë seemed entirely at ease, ready and willing to laugh and be merry. Daeron relaxed too, little by little.

Later, when they had a moment before Maglor had to go rehearse with Lindir and a few others, he said, “It’s a little funny, you know, how fearless you were when facing down Eönwë, when you get so nervous around your family.”

Daeron grinned, but it was rueful. “I know. The difference is I have nothing to lose by telling Eönwë what I really think of him.”

Simpalírë had been passing by, and doubled back, looking aghast. “Daeron, what did you say to Eönwë?”

“I only pointed out a few mistakes he made that had rather enormous consequences,” Daeron said. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I wasn’t struck down where I stood, as you can see.”

“But Eönwë—Daeron, I know you aren’t used to the Maiar, but—”

Daeron laughed at that. “Brother-mine, have you forgotten who Elu Thingol married? I was Melian’s student for almost all my life in Beleriand—that is why I am not cowed by Eönwë, and would not be even were he to appear before me in all his splendor.”

“Well for heaven’s sake, don’t say anything about it to Ammë or Atya!”

“I didn’t intend to,” said Daeron. “I didn’t intend to tell you about it, for that matter.”

“And don’t go telling off any of the Valar when they appear—as they’re bound to, this summer! Stars above, I can’t believe I just had to say that.” Simpalírë walked off, shaking his head. He muttered something exasperated about brothers as he went, which Maglor couldn’t help but laugh at, and that laughter carried him up onto the stage, where he did not sing any merry songs, but was able to get through the set without feeling the least bit nervous—even knowing that Daeron’s family were all sitting in the audience.

When he did glance out from the stage just after they finished, Maglor nearly dropped his harp. “Maglor?” Lindir caught it, frowning at him. “What’s wrong? I thought that went perfectly well.”

“What? No, it did, it’s—I thought—” Maglor looked back out into the crowd, but the familiar face he’d thought that he had seen was no longer there. “I thought I saw someone—it doesn’t matter.” He adjusted his grip on his harp and offered a smile. “Sorry. My mind must have been wandering.”

“You might have seen someone familiar,” Lindir said as they left the stage. “There’s Maiar popping up all over the place, just appearing out of the air without so much as a by-your-leave. It’s terribly rude.”

Maglor snorted. “It wasn’t a Maia—and you must know Gandalf does the same thing. He certainly doesn’t travel all over the place on foot these days.”

“He’s at least thoughtful enough not to do it right at my elbow,” Lindir muttered. “And then to laugh about it when I spill wine all over myself.”

“Is that how you got that stain all over your robes yesterday?”

“Yes, and Elladan’s already writing rhymes about it—”

Maglor laughed out loud. “It’s only fair, Lindir, after all you’ve written about everyone else!”

“I know that!” Lindir elbowed him, also laughing. “But Elladan is a terrible songwriter!”

“Oh that’s all right, I can help him—”

“Maglor!”

“What’s a good phrase to rhyme with frightened out of his wits?”

“I was not frightened out of my—hey, get back here!”