The Day Transcending Night - Chapter Twelve

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Fandom: Tolkien
Rating: M
Characters: Celegorm, Daeron, Elured, Elurin, Maglor, Celebrimbor, Sauron
Warnings: Violence/Injuries
Summary: The Rings have been forged. The armies of Mordor are marching into Eriador. Eregion burns. Far away from it all, by the shores of the Sea, Celegorm remembers his name.
Note: This fic is a direct sequel to A Thousand Winds that Blow

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“Can I ask you a question?” Eluréd sat down next to Maglor near the fire. Elurín had taken Celebrimbor lunch and had yet to emerge; Celegorm had disappeared outside, as he usually did in the afternoons, and Maglor wasn’t sure where Daeron had gone either.

“Yes,” he said, glancing at Eluréd before returning his gaze to his harp, which needed tuning. 

“Well, several questions, actually.”

“I’ll answer any questions you have, if I can.”

“Why won’t you look either me or Elurín in the eye?”

The string under Maglor’s fingers snapped. He muttered a curse, and then sighed as he went to detach the ends. “Surely you can guess the answer to that,” he said. 

“I can, but even an informed guess is still only a guess, and I would rather know. You know I don’t really want to punch you in the face, don’t you?”

“I think if you really wanted to you would have already,” Maglor said. “And to answer your question—you must know how closely you resemble your nephew. Or he resembles you, I suppose.”

“I do. But I am not Elrond, and I think he would wish for you to look him in the eye when you meet again, too. Do you really not believe that he would be happy to see you? He asked us a long time ago to keep an eye out for you, when we went traveling. He didn't ask us to try to bring you back, but I think he wanted to.”

“As you say, that was a long time ago.”

“It was also a long time after you disappeared. I do not think his feelings will have changed in the intervening years. Were you not his foster father? That can’t mean as little to you as you seem to want to pretend.”

Maglor thought he would rather have been punched in the face than have this particular conversation. “It means everything. I raised him and I loved him—of course I loved him—but I was his kidnapper, not his father. I know what you call my brother, but the circumstances were very different.”

“I know. But I maintain that you have already paid for it. And he still loves you.”

“I’m here now, aren’t I?” Maglor looked up, meeting Eluréd’s gaze. It was too keen and too knowing—which was the real reason it was so hard. He found that he did not particularly like being seen so clearly after having gone so many years unseen. It was hard sometimes even to endure his own brother’s eyes on him. “I don’t know whether or not Elrond would be pleased to see me. I won’t shrink from a meeting, if I make it that far, but it would not be fair to either of us to go into it with—expectations.”

“I told Lossë not long ago that I do not find it so very hard to hold many conflicting truths in my heart. Few understand—even Elurín has trouble—but I think Elrond would agree with me that many things can be true at once and that does not make any of them less meaningful than the others,” Eluréd said. “It isn’t always easy, and of course it is never simple—but neither are we, with the blood of Maiar, Men, and Elves in our veins. What isn’t fair is depriving him of the one person left in the world who knew him when he was young—one of very few who can look at him and see him, and not just Eärendil’s son or Gil-galad’s herald. Or Lúthien.”

Maglor looked away, busying himself in coiling up the broken harp string. “Maybe,” he said. “Was there anything else you wished to ask of me?”

“I only wondered what you usually do at this time of year. It must be very cold by the Sea in winter.”

“It is, but there are a few places I usually go—inland a little ways, where there are caves in the hills, if I find myself near to the Ered Luin. At times in the past I have gone farther south, following the birds, away past Belfalas and the mouths of the Anduin. I would have done that this year, but it is often easy for me to lose track of time, and I tarried in the north longer than I meant to.”

“You tarried just long enough,” Eluréd said. Then he reached for a nearby box and pulled out a new harp string. “Here. We have plenty of extras. Elurín’s always breaking them.”

“Thank you.”

“I think there is much healing that we all need,” Eluréd said after a moment, as he watched Maglor attach the new string. “And I think also that we will not find it if we keep holding onto old hatreds or old fears. You do not need to be so careful around me or Elurín. Even without Elrond, we’re family of a sort. A very complicated sort, of course, that I am sure will confuse everyone we meet in the future, but that’s nothing new.”

Maglor watched Eluréd leave, feeling even less certain of his place there than he had before they spoke. After a few minutes Celegorm came back inside to curl up in the chair just behind where Maglor was sitting on the floor. “What’s wrong?” he asked. 

“Nothing, I think.” Maglor leaned back against him, closing his eyes when Celegorm’s fingers ran through his hair. It was so strange to be around other people all the time. Wonderful, to know that he just had to turn around to find his brother there, which he would never again take for granted, and that he could be sure of a friend in Daeron, but still strange. Sometimes he caught himself missing the solitude of the seashore—but he knew better than to say that out loud. Instead he said, “It’s so strange, isn’t it—that we both ended up raising a pair of twins.”

“I suppose.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Just…you talk about raising Elrond and Elros like you did it alone. But Nelyo was there, wasn’t he?”

Maglor sighed. They had to talk about Maedhros sometime, he supposed. But it still hurt. “He was, but—he kept his distance, as much as he could. It was easier when we still held the fort on the Amdram—not Amon Ereb, we were too few after Sirion to hold that, but a smaller one a little farther west. It was harder when we had to flee—south into Ossiriand, where we could hide in the hills and the woods, and you know there’s no real chance of avoiding anyone when camping like that. The boys were afraid of him, and he didn’t do very much to try to alleviate it except to keep what distance he could. He still cared—I refuse to believe he didn’t—but he didn’t—couldn’t—show it.”

Celegorm was silent for a moment. Then he said, almost whispering, “That doesn’t sound like him.”

No, it didn’t. “We all changed, you know that,” Maglor said softly. “And he…I think—after Doriath and especially after Sirion I was losing him a little bit more every day, only I didn’t—I didn’t want to see it, so I didn’t look, I chose to believe him when he promised not to leave me. I couldn’t bear the thought, so I didn’t think it. He rallied a little during the war, after we sent the boys to Gil-galad and started engaging with the enemy ourselves, but it didn’t last.”

“Maglor…”

“He was never the same after the Nirnaeth.”

“None of us were.”

“But it hit him the hardest. He’d dared to hope again and then—well. There was no hope, not for any of us.”

“You’re still here.”

“I don’t know why.” Maglor turned his head so he could look up at Celegorm, to see the way his eyes were a little too bright. “I’m sorry. But—I don’t think there was anything you could have done either.” When they’d gotten the Silmarils and Eönwë had let them go, they’d run as far and as fast as they could—and with the way the earth was shifting and breaking around them, Celegorm would have been too late whatever he had done, even if Daeron had shared the truth with him as soon as they heard what happened—but Maglor couldn’t make himself say that out loud. It would only make Celegorm feel worse, and might reignite a feud with Daeron. 

“If I’d found you—gotten to him in time—”

“Please don’t do this to yourself. I don’t think he ever wanted to be saved.” Maglor turned around fully and rose onto his knees as Celegorm seemed to crumple, curling forward. “I’m sorry, Tyelko. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s just not fair,” Celegorm whispered. “It should’ve been me. It was supposed to be me. Not him. Not any of you—”

“Don’t—”

“It’s true—”

“It’s not what happened. Please don’t do this to yourself. If you really had died in Menegroth then—then it all would have happened exactly as it did, only I’d still be on the beach alone right now. I wouldn’t even have known that Tyelpë was in danger. None of us would be here.”

Celegorm rested his head on Maglor’s shoulder. “How did the rest of them die?” he asked after a moment. “Was it—was it quick?”

“Yes, it was. I don’t think Moryo or Curvo even knew what had happened. And Ambarussa were together.”

“And—Nelyo…”

“It was quick. He was there one moment and gone the next. I don’t think he felt any of it.”

“He felt the Silmaril,” Celegorm whispered. 

“Not for long. And he’s in the Halls, now. They all are—there’s healing there, even for Nelyo. Maybe someday they will be permitted to return, and they’ll find Ammë waiting for them.”

“We won’t, though. Even if they do return, we won’t ever see them again.” 

“No, we won’t.” Maglor tightened his arms around Celegorm. “But we’re together. That’s enough. It has to be.” It was easier for him, though. He’d had years upon years to mourn, to come to terms with the fact that everyone he had known and loved was dead. Celegorm had only had weeks—and most of those weeks had been taken up with other more immediate worries. He hadn’t had any time at all to mourn as he needed to yet.

And, it seemed, he wasn’t allowing himself that time, even now that he had a chance. He pulled back after a few minutes, blinking back the tears he hadn’t let fall. As he did Eluréd came back inside, followed by Daeron, and Maglor watched Celegorm push it all down and put on a smile for Eluréd, answering to the name Atya without thinking about it, and immediately getting up when asked to help fix something on the stable roof.

Daeron sat down in his usual chair with a sigh, curling up and leaning towards the warmth of the fire. “Can I ask what you were speaking of?”

Maglor hesitated, and then felt foolish for doing so. “Our brothers.” 

From anyone else he would have expected—he didn’t even know what. Derision, maybe, judgment for mourning so deeply those who did not deserve it. But Daeron only nodded as though he had expected nothing else. “I’m sorry.”

“I just—it’s so fresh for him, and I don’t know how to help.”

“You’re here.”

“That’s not enough.”

“It was for me—just to have someone who understood even a little, someone who would let me feel what I needed to feel and then just be there. I’ve tried to do the same for him, because even if he did not want to remember, he still felt the loss. You are a far closer companion in this grief than I am. And—let yourself lean on him, too. Being alone is a very hard habit to break, but it’s worth it.”

“It is a habit I never thought I would form,” Maglor said after a moment. “Solitude was once a luxury.”

“In a house of seven brothers, I imagine so.”

“And numerous cousins all coming and going—and students and friends and, oh all kinds of visitors. Our house was never empty.”

“It sounds very chaotic.”

“It was. It was wonderful.” Maglor rested his arms on his knees and sighed. “And I think—if I were dropped back into the middle of it as I am now, I would run away the first chance I got.”

“If you need to slip away for a while, you can,” Daeron said. “Just—well, just don’t go far, and come back afterward.”

“I’m all right.” He could go outside and climb the hill behind the house, or follow the stream to the cold spring at its source, and sit for a while in the quiet. He didn’t need to go farther than that, or even to stay very long. It was nice, to have walls and a roof and a proper hearth and other people to fill the silence, even if it occasionally grew overwhelming. It was cozy rather than chaotic. He would never get used to it, though, if he kept running away—and he did not want to run away. “I do still want to learn how to craft a Girdle like yours.”

“I’m a little surprised you don’t already know,” Daeron said. “Did you not learn of the Valar as I learned of Melian?”

“I learned much of them, but nothing like that. There was no call for such things in those days.”

“Mm, I suppose that’s true.”

“Are you all right?” Maglor asked. They’d been back for some days now, but Daeron still seemed weary—even wearier than Maglor.

“Oh, I’m fine. I just haven’t been sleeping very well.”

“And you can’t even sleep in your own bed—I’m sorry—”

“It’s not the bed—please don’t apologize. Autumn and winter always leave me more tired than I should be, anyway.” Daeron kept his gaze on the fire. “I just thought we were done with all of this,” he said, voice very quiet. “With the darkness, with the war.”

“So did I.” Maglor picked up his harp again to finish tuning it. “You said before that you learned the same things Galadriel did from Melian?”

“More, probably—I was Melian’s student nearly all my life, until I left Doriath.”

“Could you make a—I think Celebrimbor said she uses a mirror of some kind? Could you look to see what is happening in the north?”

Daeron frowned at the fire. After a moment he said, slowly, “Yes…I think so. But I think I also said before that my talents lie in hiding rather than seeking.”

“But you could try.”

“Yes, I could try.” Daeron stared at the fire for a few minutes longer, though he didn’t seem to be seeing the flames. Then he sat up. “It will take me a little time to prepare what I need.”

“I don’t think there’s any hurry,” said Maglor. “None of us are going anywhere. I didn’t mean for you to do anything this moment.”

“There’s not much hurry, but the more we know before we leave this place, the better.” Daeron glanced at him with a small smile. “And now I am rather curious to see whether I really can do it or not. If I can’t, I think I can teach Eluréd. If nothing else, it’s something to do—and I need that.” 

Curious as to what Daeron actually needed for a mirror, which Maglor suspected was not actually a mirror the way he thought of it, he followed him outside and into the woods. One thing they had in common, besides music, was a fondness for woodcarving; that was something else they’d discovered at the Mereth Aderthad, when they’d spoken of crafting their own instruments. There was plenty of dead wood to choose from in the woods, but for this particular project Daeron seemed especially picky. Maglor picked up a few pieces of wood for himself, just to have something to do with his hands in the evenings, while Daeron contemplated others; they spoke little, but it was nice—simple companionship without any need to fill the silence. 

They returned to find Celegorm on top of the roof with Eluréd, and Elurín just stepping outside. “What are you doing?” he asked Daeron. 

“I’m going to try to make a mirror, to see what’s happening in the north,” said Daeron. “There’s a fallen tree I want to take a part of—will you help me carry it back?”

As Elurín and Daeron vanished back into the woods, Maglor went inside to check on Celebrimbor. He found him under a pile of blankets, seemingly asleep. When Maglor turned to leave he said, half-mumbling, “Uncle? Don’t go.”

“I didn’t mean to wake you, Tyelpë.” Maglor sat on the bed beside him, and Celebrimbor curled up against his side, sighing when Maglor stroked his hair. Maglor hummed an old lullaby until Celebrimbor fell back asleep, and then kept humming, hoping to keep the nightmares at bay. It had been a very long time since he had sung such songs, or sung to any audience but the sea and sky. As he carefully teased out a few tangles from Celebrimbor’s hair, Maglor thought of what he’d said the night before. The Seven and the Nine. What did that mean? What had he made that Sauron wanted so badly? Celebrimbor would have to tell them eventually, but Maglor thought that it was less that he did not want to than that he couldn’t, at least not yet. 

Celegorm had spoken of Maedhros, after his rescue from Thangorodrim. In some ways Celebrimbor was in far better shape—he had not been held nearly as long, and though his injuries were bad and would heal slowly, they would still heal more quickly than Maedhros’ had. But in other ways, more troubling ways, he was worse. He was older than Maedhros had been, and had endured much already—and from some of the things he’d let slip, Maglor thought that he was suffering the pain of a betrayal on top of everything else. How that had come about, and who had betrayed him, Maglor couldn’t begin to guess. 

It took Daeron several days to carve out a shallow wooden basin to his liking, and then to make a pedestal for it. “Metal would probably be better,” he said to Maglor as he sanded the bottom of the basin. “But I don’t have any metal bowls that would suit, and I certainly can’t make one. Hopefully the fact that I know wood well will make up for it. It’s the water that’s the most important thing, anyway.”

“Could you use clay?”

Daeron grinned at him. “You mistake me for a Noldo—I did not grow up learning every craft under the stars. I can only carve wood in the first place because I was very picky about my instruments. And anyway even if I knew how, I don’t have clay or a kiln.”

“Throwing clay is fun,” said Maglor, as Celegorm wandered over to see what Daeron was doing. “Very messy, though. Maedhros was good at it when we were young.”

“He was good at everything,” said Celegorm. “What are you making, Daeron?”

“I’m attempting to make a mirror, like one Galadriel would use,” said Daeron, “but do not get your hopes up. I’m not sure I’ll see anything in it but the bottom of the bowl and the reflections of the stars.”

“Worth a try though,” said Celegorm after a moment. “Unless anyone you want to find has the same protections around them that we do.”

“My protections are very particular,” said Daeron. “I doubt anyone I intend to seek would have thought to hide themselves from me—though maybe they are hidden from all. And maybe I will just not be very good at seeking.”

“You know I hate it when you do that,” Celegorm said with a sigh. 

“I’m not, I’m just being realistic—this isn’t like singing. Anyway, you pick up something you haven’t tried in nearly two thousand years and see how good you are at it.”

“Why didn’t you attempt something like this before?”

“Because I wasn’t good at the things I used to be, then, or as strong as I am now,” Daeron said, his gaze back on his work, his previous smile replaced by a frown; Maglor couldn’t tell whether it was merely one of concentration or not. “Seeking takes a strong will and—and a greater belief in your own power and your own success than I was capable of then. It is also uncertain, even if one is good at it. It might show what is happening in the present or it might show the past—or it might show one of many possible futures, and it is not always clear which one you are being shown. That’s why I was never any good at it—I hated trying to puzzle out what I was seeing. Galadriel was one who always wanted to know everything, so it does not surprise me that she took to it or that she remains skilled. Perhaps she can more clearly see whatever she wishes to see, as Melian could, rather than what the mirror chooses to show.”

“She has always been hungry for knowledge,” said Maglor, remembering how impatient she had been as a child, always wanting to learn more and more, wanting to pierce all the mysteries of the world. She had been very quick to learn and diligent in her practices and her studies, but ever her desires had outpaced them. He had not seen her since the Mereth Aderthad, and hoped that by now she had learned more patience. “I don’t think anyone has yet explained to me how you kept Tyelko from her notice—in the encampment of the armies of the West, I mean. It sounds as though you spent a long time there.”

“We’ve mentioned I was wounded by Sauron,” Celegorm said after a moment. “He had taken the form of some—I don’t know what it was, some winged creature—and he tried to grab Elurín and got me instead. You’ve seen my back—that’s where I got those scars. It took a very long time to heal, so after we arrived at the army camp I just…never left the tent that we were given, except once or twice.”

“Nor did I, much,” said Daeron. “I was badly wounded too—we both needed time to heal. I spoke to Galadriel a few times while we were there, and I kept waiting for her to ask questions, or to try to meet Lossë, but she never did. I suppose she thought there would be time enough in the future to puzzle us out, or maybe she just didn’t care. There were many other more pressing things that needed both of their attention—Celeborn only took real notice of us because of the twins.”

“He took notice of you too,” Celegorm said.

“Well, yes, but I am not his nephew. And you know I don’t care what sort of standing I have with the remnants of the Iathrim—”

“You’d better start caring, if we’re going to make for Lórinand come spring,” Celegorm said.

Daeron glared at him. “I know what I have to do, Lossë.”

Maglor somewhat regretted asking the question, but this seemed like a thread of an old argument that neither Celegorm nor Daeron expected to win. He could see why others thought them lovers—he might have thought them married if he did not know better. It was a reminder that he remained an outsider in this place, and he thought that it would be a long time before he started to feel otherwise. And because he still wasn’t used to watching what he said around other people he heard himself say, “Would you two like some privacy to work this out?”

Celegorm snorted and Daeron rolled his eyes. “I told you it’s not like that,” Celegorm said.

“So did I,” said Daeron, and just like that they were a united front rather than at odds. Maglor suddenly missed all of his other brothers with a keenness that nearly took his breath away—they would have had much to say about this, and all of it would have been funny. He missed their laughter—he couldn’t even remember what Maedhros’ had sounded like.

“If you say so,” said Maglor, hoping his voice didn’t betray anything more than amusement. Celegorm made a motion like he was going to punch him in the arm, but stopped short. Daeron rolled his eyes again. This was also a sign, though, that they were not only on speaking terms again but almost back to whatever normal looked like for them, and Maglor was truly glad to see it.

When they left Daeron to his work Maglor ventured to ask, just to make sure, “You two—you’re all right?”

“Yes.” Celegorm shoved his hands into his pockets. “It’s—I can’t forget what it cost me, but I understand why he did it, and it’s not worth losing him. That was the worst part, when I first remembered—the thought that I’d lose him. All three of them. I might still lose the twins, or Tyelpë, but…I don’t know, maybe not. I’ve got them at least until all of this is over. Whenever that might be, whatever happens. And I’ve got you.”

“You won’t lose Tyelpë,” Maglor said. “Not unless something truly terrible happens.”

“Not unless he fades, you mean.”

“Don’t say that—”

“I know the signs, Cáno.”

“So do I, and he isn’t.”

Celegorm reached out and caught his hand, halting them before they reached the house. “He might fade,” he said, meeting Maglor’s eyes gravely, “or he might be killed—or any of us or all of us might be killed.”

“You were the one who insisted we would all be fine.”

“And I’m going to do everything in my power to make that true. But—Dior’s curse was not to make me forget. I don’t know whether it’s been fully lifted or if this is just—I don’t know, the same thing taking a different form. I’m not going to give up, but—”

“What was the curse? You still haven’t told me—you never mentioned a curse at all until the night Daeron swore his oath.”

Celegorm pressed his lips together, and shook his head. “Not yet. Maybe when this is over—when I’m sure that it is over—maybe I can speak it aloud. But I can’t, now.”

“Is that—”

“No, there’s nothing stopping me. I just—I just can’t.” Celegorm squeezed Maglor’s hand before letting go. “I need to take Lhimmir out for some exercise. You should go inside, it’s cold.”

“I’m fine—”

“You’re as bad as Daeron. Just go inside, please.”