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starsprayRating: 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
“Who is that?”
Maglor glanced up from fixing the laces on his boots to follow Beleg’s gaze to where a knot of Noldor were speaking together. He spotted Gildor Inglorion among them, but did not think that was who Beleg meant. “Who in particular?” he asked.
They were gathered for the horse racing—the first of many races, for Ingwion was running a tournament that would last most of the summer. Maglor was taking part alongside Beleg and Mablung and Celegorm and dozens of others. A large audience had also gathered. Daeron had come to watch along with all three of his siblings and Netyalossë and Vinyelírë’s children. Calissë and Náriel were also with them—Calissë and Calindë had, as Daeron had predicted, become fast friends, and pulled Orolëo and Náriel along with them, and over the last few weeks the four of them had been running around with Daeron’s youngest songbirds, playing all sorts of games—old and brand new. Náriel’s fears of being left behind by her sister had turned out to be baseless. Rundamírë had also made quick friends with Vinyelírë, finding common ground immediately over the trials of managing infants under the present circumstances.
“The one in green and silver. He looks strangely familiar, but I cannot think of where we might have met before.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know him.” Maglor glanced at Daeron, who shrugged. “Where’s Finrod? He’d know.”
“What about Finrod?” Fingon came up, also dressed for riding. “Ready for the race, Maglor?”
“Nearly. Do you know who that is—in the green and silver you said, Beleg?”
“Yes.”
Fingon looked over and his smile faded. “Oh,” he said. “That is Gwindor, and his brother Gelmir beside him. They are both very lately come from Mandos—so new-come that I’m a little surprised to see them here, actually.”
“Oh,” said Beleg, very softly.
“Would you like me to reintroduce you?” Fingon asked.
“Yes, please. But later,” said Beleg, as the horn call went up for the racers to come to the starting line. He flashed a smile, though it was not as bright as usual. “I have a race to win first.”
“We’ll see about that!” said Mablung as he leaped into his saddle.
It wasn’t often lately that Maglor got to ride hard and fast for any reason—let alone the mere thrill of it. And it was a thrill to thunder down the track marked with brightly colored flags, with other riders all around shouting and calling and laughing, and the wind in his hair and the hot summer sun on his face. As the finish line approached he heard Celegorm whoop somewhere behind him, and then he shot past the final banners and slowed to a canter and then a walk before turning back to the gathered crowd, watching the rest of the riders reach the end. He’d won by the length of half a horse, and found himself pulled out of the saddle so Daeron could kiss him soundly, and Celebrían and the twins could embrace him. “Well done, Lord of the Gap,” Daeron said into his ear.
Celegorm had gotten fourth place, tying with Mablung, with Beleg finishing just behind them. Maglor did not know the others who had place second and third—they were Avari from the west, and came over to offer their congratulations, everyone still giddy with the excitement of speed and competition.
“Where is Elrond?” he asked Celebrían as the commotion started to die down and the next group of racers assembled, Ambarussa and Fingon among them.
“Acting as peacekeeper—with the family gathering coming up, he thought his parents and grandparents should have it out with Maeglin today. No one was particularly pleased with the idea, but he put on his Herald of the King face and voice, and not even his parents can really say no to that.”
“Don’t worry,” said Elladan, “Grandfather Fingolfin and Grandmother Anairë are also there. No one’s going to end the day as friends, but I don’t think it will get ugly.”
“That reminds me, I never asked how it went when they met my father.”
“Awkward but not terrible,” Celebrían said, “which is about what we all expected. Honestly, I think everyone in this family—the family at large, I mean—gets along astonishingly well, all things considered.”
“It’s your influence,” said Elrohir. “Yours and Ada’s.”
“That’s very flattering,” Celebrían laughed.
“I think it’s true,” said Maglor. He thought that, at least lately, it was also that Finwë was in their thoughts—at least those of their family who remembered him—and they were all more mindful than they had once been of what he would wish.
He did not see Elrond until that evening. There were no important performances for Maglor that night—which was just as well, since he’d glimpsed Manwë earlier that day and didn’t think he could get up and sing before him again, even in a group and singing different songs—and so it was easy to slip away before dinner to find a quiet spot. “I feel like I haven’t spoken to you in ages,” said Maglor. They’d seen one another every day, of course, but there was always something happening or a crowd of people all around, and little opportunity for private conversation.
“It’s been very busy,” Elrond agreed.
“How did it go this afternoon?”
Elrond shrugged. “Well enough, I suppose. My father isn’t…I do not think he is angry, but—well. He was only a child when Gondolin fell, and Maeglin plays a very prominent role in those memories. I don’t think they will ever be friends, but at least they’ve gotten this first meeting over with, and there can be peace.”
“And Idril? Tuor?”
“They are angry, and I don’t think that will go away any time soon—but they aren’t interested in perpetuating any feud either. After this summer they can all avoid Maeglin and he can avoid them—it won’t be hard, since they rarely come to Tirion and he has no reason to visit Eressëa—and they’ll go along peacefully enough, and be coldly polite whenever circumstances do bring them together.” Elrond sighed. “It is, as always, complicated.”
“Ah yes, Calissë’s least favorite word,” Maglor said, and Elrond laughed. “All of this is very fun, but I’m already looking forward to being back home.”
“I’m looking forward to doing some more traveling in the coming years,” Elrond said. “If Ingwë wanted to encourage more traffic in between the eastern lands and the cities in the west, he’s succeeding—I’ve already received two invitations and Celebrían and I intend to accept them.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“It’s still hard to break old habits—of not traveling much, I mean. But there’s no good reason not to now, and I do want to see more of Valinor than I have yet. Someday I would like even to go all the way to Ekkaia—but I want to make that journey with you.”
“I would like that.”
They walked down by the lake, where the setting sun turned the water all gold and orange. It was strange to look to the horizon and not to see Gil-Estel shining there as the skies darkened and the stars began to come out. “I’ve been dreaming lately,” Elrond said after a little while. “I can’t really remember the dreams when I wake up, but—it feels as though something has changed.”
“I’m not sure you need dreams to tell you that,” said Maglor. “This feast alone is going to change many things.”
“Yes, but that’s not what I mean. You’re in the dreams,” said Elrond, frowning as he tried to recall them. “I do remember that. And they’re full of starlight…”
“You and Daeron have been having odd dreams about me,” said Maglor. “Should I be worried?”
“No. No—whatever is going to happen, it’s going to be wonderful. That, I can say with certainty, and when it does happen, or when we learn what has already happened I suppose, I’ll recognize it. The last time I was given foresight in this way was just before I met Celebrían for the first time.”
“You can’t guess what it might be?”
“Oh, I can guess—I just cannot guess when.”
“All right then, be mysterious about it,” laughed Maglor as they turned back toward the encampment.
“I so rarely get to be mysterious about things these days!” Elrond said as Maglor put an arm around his shoulders. “And I never get to be mysterious about anything good—of course I’m going to take advantage of the opportunity.”
After dinner, Celegorm followed Maglor back to his tent where he’d left his harp. “I made you something,” he said once they were alone, and held out a small wooden box.
“What is it?” Maglor asked as he took it.
“Just open it.”
Maglor did, and blinked down at the pile of very small ceramic cats nestled inside, formed in various poses. He picked one out, no larger than his thumb—black with white socks and white-tipped ears. “Why—Tyelko, this is Tári.” He picked out another—Pídhres—and then found Haldanar and Haldisil, and Dúmidh and Leihlim and Winicë and others besides, all of Tári’s descendants that had adopted him at one point or another during his years in Rivendell. “How did you—?”
“I looked in the palantír that Curvo has, so I could see what they all looked like,” Celegorm said. “You’ve got all those horses Grandfather made you, and I thought—I thought you might like your cats, too. And your hedgehogs. Leicheg is in there too.”
“I see her. Oh, I love them—thank you.” Maglor set the box down so he could throw his arms around Celegorm. “They’re beautiful.”
“I’m glad the first one found you,” Celegorm said into his shoulder. “That you weren’t so—you seemed so lost, and—”
“I was—but I haven’t been for a long time.”
“I know you tell us all the time how happy you were, but I don’t think I really believed you until I looked for it in the palantír.”
“Do you believe me when I say I’m happy now?”
“Yes.”
“Are you happy?” Maglor asked. Celegorm had seemed happy, joining in the games and the races and the dancing—and he had been speaking to Finrod and their other cousins. If it wasn’t perfectly easy, it was better than it had been. He had also been speaking to Fëanor, and Maglor had even seen them laughing together. But Celegorm was in some ways much like Maglor had once been—he could pretend very well when he felt he had to.
“Yes,” Celegorm said after a slight pause. “I am—I really am.”
The next morning Maglor found Caranthir and Curufin after breakfast, watching Náriel and Calissë as they took part in some games Queen Aravennë and her daughters had organized for the children. “Where are Rundamírë and Lisgalen?” Maglor asked as he sat down beside Caranthir.
“Lisgalen’s off with Tyelpë and some other smiths—everyone’s all wanting to learn from each other, and I don’t understand a word in five,” said Caranthir.
“Don’t you want to join them, Curvo?”
“I will later,” said Curufin as a three-legged race began. Náriel had been paired with a child Maglor didn’t know, and Calissë was paired with Cýroniel, both of them giggling as they tripped and fell as soon as they left the starting line. “We’ve all summer for it. Arimeldë and her mother are with the triplets—they were fussy this morning, but they should be all right by lunchtime.”
They cheered on the children for a few games. During a lull between footraces, Caranthir leaned his head on Maglor’s shoulder. “Spoke to Atya this morning,” he said quietly.
“About what?” Maglor asked, as Curufin glanced over at them.
“He wants to plant a garden where the old house was. I had suggested it, but I didn’t think he’d actually do it, and—he wants me to help.”
“Will you?” Curufin asked.
“I…well, I told him I would, so I guess I have to.” Caranthir sounded as surprised by this as Fëanor had probably been. “He said he’s never been any good at gardening, so I guess someone needs to make sure everything doesn’t just up and die after a month.”
Maglor put his arm around Caranthir’s shoulders. “Make sure you plant lots of peonies,” he said.
“Atya said that too.”
Náriel won a game that Maglor was unfamiliar with—he thought it must be new, perhaps created just for that summer—and came running over to show Curufin the prism that had been her prize—clear crystal cut in the shape of a butterfly, made to be hung by a silk ribbon in a window. “Look, Atya, it’s like the ones you make sometimes!”
“Did you make it?” Caranthir asked.
“No,” Curufin laughed. “I think someone from Valmar did. I made prizes to be given out, but not for the children. It’s beautiful,” he added to Náriel, “but make sure you give it to your ammë later, so it doesn’t get lost before we can go home and hang it in your room.”
Their brothers and cousins joined them after the children’s games broke up. Maglor hoisted Calissë onto his back, and Náriel ran to show Maedhros her butterfly prism. “Aren’t you hot, Macalaurë?” Angrod asked as they all mingled together. It was a very warm day, and Maglor was the only one wearing a shirt under his robes, rather than going sleeveless and bare-armed.
“No,” Maglor said, trying to smile. He’d long ago figured out the best fabrics to wear in summer to keep from overheating—but he’d failed to account for current Noldorin fashions when preparing for the feast. He was not the only person in sleeves, but among his own family and the folk from Tirion he did stand out. “I just prefer long sleeves, that’s all.”
“You never used to,” said Argon. “You always complained when cold weather came and you had to hide your arms and put away all your favorite bracelets and armbands.”
“I don’t really wear those sorts of things anymore,” Maglor said.
“Why not?” asked Angrod.
“Angaráto,” Finrod said sharply.
“What? I’m just asking—”
Maglor glanced at Curufin, who came to take Calissë, whispering something in her ear to distract her as Maglor turned back to his cousins. Once he was sure neither of the girls were looking his way, he tugged up his sleeve, revealing the scars on his wrists from years of manacles rubbing away the skin that surely everyone had glimpsed already, but also other uglier scars on his forearm, thick lines and evil designs carved into his skin by knives and other tools he didn’t have names for. Many were faint now, but all together they were still noticeable. Both Angrod and Argon went white-faced. “No one wants to see that,” Maglor said quietly as he tugged the sleeve back down. “And I don’t like metal things on my arms.”
“Which either one of you should have been able to guess,” Fingon said, glaring at the two of them.
“Sorry,” Angrod muttered, averting his gaze.
“I’m sorry, Macalaurë,” Argon said a little more graciously. “I forgot about…”
“Of course you did. That’s why I hide them—so as not to be always reminding everyone. I’m not offended, but I’m also not going to change my clothes.”
“Is there anything that offends you, these days?” Finrod asked. Maglor shrugged. “You are allowed to be offended, you know—to be annoyed or angry.”
“Do you really want me to—”
“Yes, when someone says something stupid!”
“Cáno gets annoyed with us all the time,” said Celegorm, coming up to sling his arm around Maglor’s neck. “But it’s mostly when we’re trying to take care of him, so perhaps Findaráto’s point still stands.”
“I hate all of you,” Maglor said, staggering under Celegorm’s weight as everyone around him laughed. “I don’t need taking care of—”
“Why doesn't Uncle Cáno want to be taken care of?” he heard Náriel ask.
“He’s just stubborn,” Maedhros replied.
“Oh you’re one to talk!” said Fingon. “You’re ten times worse than Maglor is!”
“If we’re going to try to decide who’s the most stubborn out of all of us,” said Galadriel, stepping up to slide her arm through Maglor’s, “we’ll still be here arguing after everyone else has packed up and gone home!”
“But also, it’s Galadriel,” Maglor said. This was met with a burst of both laughter and protestations—though no one really had a good counterargument.
The group moved on ahead, leaving Galadriel and Maglor walking more or less by themselves. “I’ve loved seeing you perform these last few evenings,” Galadriel said. The night before Maglor had sung the Noldolantë. It was the first time in centuries he had sung it, and the first time in even longer that he had done so before an audience. “You carry yourself much easier these days.”
“It feels easier,” Maglor said. “Easier than I thought it would be this summer.” He still needed to slip away afterward, to find his brothers or Daeron and just sit quietly while they talked and laughed around him, but he’d stopped feeling anxious every time he was called up onto the stage.
“I do wish, though, you had told me beforehand that you were to go before the Valar.”
“I told as few people as I could get away with,” Maglor said, “which turned out to be rather more than I would have liked.”
Galadriel laughed. “I suppose that’s the price to pay for having so many brothers.”
“Your father guessed at it, when I spoke to him. You didn’t when I spoke to you and Finrod only because I didn’t yet know our grandmothers’ real purpose for it.”
“I had wondered,” Galadriel admitted. “And I’ve since heard that you were remarkable—your father wants to tell everyone who will listen just how wonderful you were—and it really is a beautiful song, Macalaurë. Whatever the Valar do or don’t do, I hope you can be proud of it.”
“It seems my father is proud enough that I don’t have to be,” said Maglor. When Galadriel gave him a look he relented, “I know, I know—I am very pleased with it, and pride will come in time, after I’m done being relieved that it’s finished.” He cast around for something else to talk about. “Aegnor seems well.”
“Aechen is to thank for that,” Galadriel laughed. “The sight of Maedhros with a hedgehog following him through our mother’s flower garden was the first time I’d really heard Aegnor laugh since he came from the Halls.”
“It is a very silly sight,” Maglor said, as Annem and Aegthil appeared to follow along at his heels. Aegnor glanced back and grinned. “I also feel as though I haven’t seen you in ages.” He’d seen little enough of her outside of the largest gatherings there at the feast, for she and Celeborn were wanted for many different things, being held in as high esteem as Thingol and Ingwë and all the other kings and princes.
“Once all this is over, Celeborn and I will come stay a while in Imloth Ningloron,” said Galadriel.
“I would like that.”
Finally, the day of Fingon and Finrod’s planned reunion came, dawning bright and clear. As Maglor and Daeron stepped outside their tent they were met by Ilcalamo and Tinwelúto. “I hear we aren’t to see you at all today,” said Tinwelúto. “Whatever are you doing?”
“A family party,” said Maglor. “Our own small Mereth Aderthad amidst this grand one. Hopefully no one comes back from it with a black eye or broken nose!”
Ilcalamo rolled his eyes as Tinwelúto blinked in alarm. “Is that likely?” he asked.
“No,” said Maglor, “but it is possible. This is my family we are speaking of.”
“You’re all a bit mad, it’s true,” said Ilcalamo. “And Daeron, you’re even madder for joining in voluntarily. Well, good luck and don’t forget your performance tomorrow night, Macalaurë! Don’t ruin your voice shouting down your cousins and brothers this afternoon.”
“I won’t. If any trouble breaks out someone else is going to deal with it.” As he spoke the hedgehogs came scurrying out of the grass between the tents, all three of them. He scooped up Annem as Daeron picked up Aegthil and Aechen. Pídhres came out of the tent to trot along at their heels. “See you later!” Maglor called over his shoulder.
“Have fun!” Tinwelúto called back.
“Still jealous?” Maglor asked Daeron. “Knowing now that Ilcalamo has never looked twice at anyone but Tinwelúto?” The story had come out a few nights before after many drinks and much laughter. It seemed that they had both come to some sudden realizations in the aftermath of the Darkening—a tale so common that it was now considered a cliche in the writing circles of Valmar.
“I never was,” Daeron said.
“Of course not.”
“Well, maybe I’m a little jealous of all of them, that they knew you when you were young and just learning your craft.”
“You know me now,” Maglor said, “better than anyone ever has.” This earned him a smile, one Daeron’s bright and warm ones that made his heart flip over in his chest.
They found Maedhros with Fëanor and Curufin, the latter two each holding one of the triplets while waiting for Rundamírë to emerge with the last. “Where are the girls?” Maglor asked as Daeron handed Aechen to Maedhros, who tucked him into the crook of his right arm.
“Gone ahead with Ambarussa,” said Curufin.
“Are they getting along today?” asked Daeron.
“Yes, thank all the stars. They haven’t fought at all since we’ve arrived here.”
“Has anyone seen Míriel or Indis?” Maglor asked, because of all days, this was the one no one wanted them to miss. Curufin and Fëanor shook their heads.
“They’ll be here,” Maedhros said, sounding oddly confident. When they all looked at him he just shrugged. “Felagund said so—and so did Galadriel, and I’m not going to argue with either of them when they start talking like that.” Caranthir and Lisgalen arrived then, followed soon after by Celegorm and Nerdanel as Rundamírë emerged, Meneltir in her arms, and there was no more time for further questions about what precisely Finrod or Galadriel had said.
The place Finrod and Fingon had chosen for the gathering was beyond the lake and in a small wood, past a hillside covered in white heather that filled the air with its sweet scent as they passed through it. Maglor had visited the edge of the wood before, gathering wild garlic and berries with Ambarussa on their journey home from Ekkaia. He saw the berry bushes, only just starting to ripen, as they entered into the wood following the ribbons tied to tree branches to mark the way. Ahead of them Maglor could already hear laughter—Elladan and Elrohir’s voices, mingling with Fingon and Angrod.
The clearing was a wide one, filled with daisies and dandelions, and enclosed on one side by a thick and fragrant honeysuckle thicket. An enormous oak grew at the edge of the clearing, with eglantine growing up its trunk, sweetly pink and smelling of apples. It lay deep enough in the wood that it felt as though they were very far away from everything else happening back at the encampment, and only occasionally heard distant sounds from it—the brief thunder of hooves, or the roar of a crowd. Closer at hand all that could be heard was the wind through the leaves and the songs of birds, which Nallámo flew up to join, perching in the oak tree to look down on them all. After they arrived the rest of the family streamed in, bringing baskets and blankets and chairs. Fëanor and Curufin set up a small pavilion so the babies could nap in the shade, while everyone cheerfully argued over who got to hold them and when.
By the early afternoon Maglor ended up on a blanket, leaning back against Daeron’s chest. Finrod had stolen his harp to join Turgon with his drum to make music, and Celebrían and Elrond were dancing, joined by Idril and Eärendil and Orodreth and Finduilas. Beside Maglor and Daeron sat Maedhros and Curufin, and just beside them sat Fëanor with both Fingolfin and Finarfin, all three of them holding one of the triplets. Maglor could see Celebrimbor sitting nearby with his arm slung around Maeglin’s shoulders as they laughed with Gil-galad and Celegorm about something. Rundamírë sat with Lisgalen, Gilheneth, and Edhellos playing a board game of some kind as Nerdanel, Anairë, and Eärwen busied themselves helping Náriel with what looked like a torn sleeve on her dress. Everyone else milled about, eating and drinking and chatting and laughing.
To keep his hands busy, Maglor had picked some daisies to weave together, and when Calissë came to sit on his lap he set the wreath he had just finished on her head. “Having fun?” he asked her.
“Oh yes! I know you said our family is big, but I didn’t think it was this big!” At this Finarfin, Fingolfin, and Fëanor all laughed.
“It might be getting even bigger soon, if I understand the hints Angaráto has been dropping,” said Finarfin as he shifted Nityanandë from one shoulder to the other. “Everyone has seen your babies, Curufinwë, and now they want their own.”
“Does that mean we’ll get baby cousins to play with?” Calissë asked. The wreath was slightly too big, and slipped down over one of her eyes, and she pushed it back up impatiently. “I want cousins!”
“Talk to your Uncle Moryo about it,” said Curufin. Beside him Fëanor snorted. “Or maybe one of Ambarussa, someday, but I’m not holding my breath.”
“They’re so secretive, who knows what they’ll get up to in the next few years,” said Maglor. “One of them might just outdo Caranthir, and turn up having gone and gotten married without even telling us about the engagement.”
“Don’t give them ideas,” said Fëanor, aghast, as Fingolfin and Finarfin both laughed. “Unless you’re just telling on yourself, Cáno, and we’ll all wake up one morning to find you married.”
“No,” Maglor said as Daeron laughed into his hair. “I don’t think either of us could get away with that.”
“My aunt would throttle me if I so much as considered it,” Daeron agreed, as though he hadn’t proposed doing exactly that just a month ago.
“Are you going to have children after you get married?” Calissë asked.
“No,” Maglor said.
“But why?” At this Maedhros snorted into his drink and then started coughing, and Curufin sighed. Finarfin laughed hard enough to startle Nityanandë. “What’s so funny?” Calissë demanded.
“We’ll be too busy spoiling all our nieces and nephews,” Maglor told her, tweaking her nose.
Curufin changed the subject firmly, and after laughing at him some more everyone else followed suit. While the talk continued around them, Maglor picked more flowers to show Calissë how he weaved them together with bits of grass and ferns, while Daeron started braiding flowers into his hair.
Then Daeron’s hands stilled, and he leaned forward to whisper, “Maglor, look. On the south side of the clearing, near the break in the honeysuckle.”
“What is it?” Maglor looked where Daeron had said, and saw movement in the tree-shadows beyond the thicket. “Who…?” Then Míriel’s face came into view, framed by the branches of a young maple and the trunk of a wild cherry tree. She was flushed and windblown as though she had just come from the saddle. “Oh,” Maglor said, “that’s—”
“Look,” Daeron said, and as he spoke Indis stepped up beside Míriel—and then another appeared between them, still hooded, broader and slightly taller than Indis. Maglor froze, unable to look away, hardly able to breathe. The flowers in his hands fell in a loose heap onto his lap.
“It can’t be,” he whispered.
Then the figure pushed back his hood, and it was—it was Finwë, his gaze roving over the clearing as he took in the sight of them all there, all laughing and dancing and playing games. Maglor saw tears slide down his face as he pressed a hand to his mouth, as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing when his eyes landed on his three sons, sitting on a blanket, holding babies and laughing together as though there had never been any strife between them at all. Maglor reached out blindly, unable to speak or to look away, until his hand landed on Maedhros’ arm, and then he gripped it hard.
“Ow, Maglor, what—” Maedhros pulled his arm free and glanced at him, his expression of annoyance quickly shifting to a frown. “What’s wrong?” Even as he spoke he followed Maglor’s gaze, and sucked in a sudden and sharp breath. He recovered very quickly, though, and turned to Fëanor a second later. “Atya, give me Meneltir.”
“What?” Fëanor turned from Fingolfin, frowning. “Why?”
“He wants his favorite uncle, and you need your hands free.” As he spoke, Maedhros pried Meneltir out of Fëanor’s arms. Meneltir, apparently feeling contrary, protested loudly at being removed from his grandfather.
Fëanor released him only reluctantly, still looking very confused. “What are you talking about?”
“You too,” Maedhros said to Finarfin and Fingolfin, who looked startled but obliged more willingly than Fëanor, handing Nityanandë and Alassië over to Curufin.
“What are you doing, Nelyo?” Curufin asked as he accepted the girls onto his lap, as confused as their father and uncles. “What’s going on?” He glanced over at Maglor and his tone grew concerned. “Cáno, what’s wrong? You look like—”
Calissë had noticed that Maglor and Daeron were looking at something, and she turned to see what it was. “Oh, it’s Grandmother Míriel!” she exclaimed. “But who’s that with her?” As one, Finarfin and Fingolfin and Fëanor jerked around. Finarfin made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a sob, grabbing at Fingolfin the same way Maglor had reached for Maedhros. Fëanor went very still and very white. “What’s the matter?” Calissë asked. “Atya, what’s—”
“Nothing’s the matter,” Curufin whispered, also staring, wide-eyed and shocked.
“What are you waiting for?” Maedhros pushed Fëanor, very gently, but that was enough. He scrambled to his feet, there in one instant and halfway across the clearing in the next. Finwë was moving too, and they crashed into each other just as he came through the honeysuckle. Fingolfin rose a second later and pulled Finarfin to his feet; Finarfin stumbled as his knee threatened to give out, but that did not stop either of them from racing after Fëanor.
Then Lalwen shrieked, “Atya!” as she and Findis reached Finwë at the same time, so he vanished beneath all five of them. Everyone else froze, silence falling over the clearing in a jangle of discordant notes as Finrod suddenly stopped playing the harp, and all laughter and speech ceased at once. It only lasted for a moment before everyone started talking over each other.
“We told you!” Amras cried as he and Amrod ran over to throw their arms around Maglor. “We told you they’d listen! I knew he would come back, I knew it!”
“We should’ve figured it out ages ago, the way Míriel just disappeared without a word!” Amrod added. “Of course they’ve been in Lórien all this time! The Valar must have released him almost as soon as you finished singing!”
Maedhros pulled Amras away to hand him Meneltir so he could wrap Maglor in an even tighter embrace, crushing him against his chest. “You’ll never escape being known as a mighty singer now,” he whispered in his ear.
“I didn’t—I didn’t think—” Maglor choked on the words. Nothing felt quite real—it was like he was in a dream, his own movements slow and sluggish while everything around him whirled so quickly. It was dizzying. He kept expecting to wake up.
All his brothers were suddenly there, and then Daeron was wiping the tears from his face. “It’s my dream,” he whispered under all the voices around them, almost shouting in their excitement. “This is the tears turning to diamonds in your hands! The Valar heard your song, Maglor, and they listened.”
“Get up, Cáno,” Maedhros said, as Celegorm reached over to haul Maglor out of everyone’s arms. He no sooner got to his feet than Míriel was there to throw her arms around him.
“Thank you so much, Macalaurë!” she said, eyes shining. “I knew they would not fail to hear you—I knew you could make them understand!”
Then someone else was calling for him. “Where is Macalaurë? Maglor!” As Míriel drew away Fëanor appeared to kiss Maglor’s forehead before embracing him, holding on so tightly Maglor almost couldn’t breathe, but only for a moment because Finwë was suddenly there too. He had that same look about him that Aredhel and Maeglin had had when Maglor had first seen them at Nerdanel’s house, that Fëanor had had when Maglor had first seen him again—that of a spirit not quite settled back into a living body yet, something about him seeming almost insubstantial. Maglor blinked and for a moment all he could see was blood and broken skin and empty staring eyes—but when Finwë reached for him the impression passed and he was there, really there and solid and warm and alive, clad in robes of deep green embroidered with white stars, made by Míriel, and with his hair braided in the styles that Indis favored, his silver-grey eyes shining with remembered Treelight, and Maglor burst into tears all over again.
“Oh, Macalaurë,” Finwë murmured, gathering him close. Maglor buried his face in his grandfather’s chest, hardly able to believe it was possible—he’d never really thought that he would get to have this again, that he would hear his grandfather’s voice or get to be held by him. “I know what it cost you to go before Manwë,” Finwë whispered into his ear. “I’m so proud of you, Macalaurë—you’ve had such a long road to walk, and here you are.”
“I missed you,” Maglor choked out. “I missed you so much—”
“I was watching you, every step of the way.”
“I’m sorry—we weren’t there, and—”
“No, do not apologize, especially not for that.” Finwë drew back to take Maglor’s face in his hands. They were big and warm, without the callouses that Maglor remembered, but Finwë’s face was just the same as in all his memories. His eyes were bright and his cheeks also tear-streaked, but he said, “No more tears, Macalaurë. No more grief—the time for all that is over.” He kissed Maglor’s forehead. “We have all come home, now—thanks to you.”
