Echoes by Idle Leaves

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Chapter 1

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Though their journey has been blessed with fine weather, Maglor is not displeased to find it nearing its end. The river Narog stretches before him, wide and glistening in the sun; all that remains is a short ride upstream along its northern banks to the deep pools at the base of the mountains. Maglor expects his company to be amongst the last - if not the last - to arrive, thanks to an unavoidable delay in their departure from Himring.

Maedhros has been riding ahead all morning, but as they near the river's source he slows to rejoin Maglor and the rest of the company. They ride, side-by-side, up a gentle slope and to a stretch of meadow bordered by woods on one side and rocky pools on the other.

Fingolfin is the first to greet them; Fingon and Aredhel are right behind him, though, and Maglor hardly has time to properly dismount before Aredhel's arms are around him. "You're late," she says. "I was starting to think you'd not be here in time."

"Little chance of that," Maglor says, nodding his head toward Maedhros, who has stepped away with Fingon, both speaking in voices too low to be overheard. He glances over the area, then, from the water's edge to the clusters of tents amongst the trees. Some faces are familiar - though many more are not - but there is one, in particular, he cannot find.

Maglor had last met Finrod nearly three years ago, along the western mountains of Nevrast, where Turgon and his people were finishing the foundations for his new city. Since then, and for a long time before, the communication between them had been for official or strategic reasons.

Save for one letter: the most recent.

"Maglor." The voice comes from behind him; Maglor turns, perhaps too quickly. Finrod reaches out to clasp Maglor's hand between both of his own, and his smile is genuine, far from the kind-yet-neutral expression he had offered during their first councils this side of the sea.

"I received your letter," he says, as they walk up the meadow toward the tents. "I didn't respond only because I knew it wouldn't reach you in time." His brow pinches with concern. "Is everything all right?"

"I hope so," says Maglor.

"We'll speak later, then?" Finrod asks, and Maglor responds with an affirmative nod.

* * *

Setting up camp takes the better part of the afternoon, and the remaining hours until nightfall go by in a blur of introductions, conversation, music, feasting, and wine. He doesn't see Finrod again until after fires have been lit around the clearing, and after he's given in to more than one request for a song and Aredhel's request for a dance.

Maglor finds him, unintentionally yet not unexpectedly, deep in discussion with a pair of Círdan's people; he is altogether unsurprised that Finrod has learned their language as well as he has. Though he has no intention of interrupting them, before he can turn away Finrod looks over and catches his eye. His smile falters momentarily, but he swiftly recovers, then politely excuses himself from conversation. 

"Walk with me," Finrod says, quietly, and works his way through the crowd, heading not to his tent but toward the water's edge.

Eithel Ivrin lives up to its reputation; its pools are wide and clear, fed by mountain streams and joined one to the next by shallow waterfalls. The moon, bright in a cloudless sky, leaves a rippling reflection on the waters. Its light is colder and harsher than the silver he used to know, but memories echo in the sound of water cascading over rocks. Maglor recalls starlit nights, rivers and pools not altogether unlike these, and Finrod, laughing; he recalls a time when they were both still young enough to believe that nothing would, or could, come between them.

"I could have waited until you had finished," Maglor says, bringing himself back to the present.

Finrod dismisses that with a wave of his hand. "I didn't mind. I can find them again later. Interesting people, both of them - stonemasons from the southern shores."

"So you were speaking of rocks," Maglor says, and Finrod laughs.

"Not quite." Then, after a long silence, Finrod says, "You arrived somewhat later than expected."

"Our departure was delayed."

"Problems at Himring?"

"Nothing serious," Maglor begins, "only--" He stops, abruptly, sudden frustration welling up. Then, he sighs. "Shall we comment on the weather, next?"

Finrod does not immediately respond. "Enough," Maglor says, and removes the circlet from his brow, placing it next to his harp in the bag he still carries over one shoulder. He hesitates, for a moment, but then reaches up and removes Finrod's as well, not acknowledging Finrod's near-imperceptible recoil from his touch. Before Maglor can even place the circlet in his hands, Finrod takes it from him, without a word.

"Can we not set this all aside," Maglor asks, "and speak openly?"

Finrod waits a long, uncertain moment before raising his eyes. Then, he says, "Your letter was rather vague," and turns to walk along the water's edge. "What troubles you?"

Maglor does not take the time to carefully choose his words. "I've grown weary of this," he says bluntly. "Of us keeping each other at arm's length, and pretending it's never been different. All I want, really," he continues, "is the chance to rebuild a bridge I shouldn't have burned."

Finrod exhales, slowly. "I'm not certain," he says, "that the bridge itself matters as much as the water that has passed beneath it."

"Too much?" Maglor asks, looking away to hide any disappointment that may show on his face.

"Sometimes it's difficult to tell."

"In the interest of honesty, I will tell you plainly that there are some choices - and some actions - that I do regret. But I don't know if speaking of them now would help or hinder."

Finrod looks pensive; he starts to speak, but stops before a single word. "If we are being honest..." he ventures, at last, but pauses again before finishing his thought. "It may be that dredging up the past is neither wise nor pleasant, but I still have one question - just one - that I've not been able to answer."

"And that is?"

"Losgar," Finrod says, avoiding Maglor's eyes. "They say that you started it."

It's not what Maglor was expecting, but he cannot - and will not - avoid a proper response. He takes a deep breath. "Maedhros and my father were arguing," he says. "He'd ordered us to burn the ships, but Maedhros would not. I feared they would come to blows - lighting that first torch was meant to stop them. I didn't think about the consequences. I was still - well, we all were, to some degree - caught up in my father's madness."

"Madness," Finrod says, sounding honestly surprised. "That's not something I expected to hear."

"Madness, passion," replies Maglor. "Call it what you wish. It doesn't change the outcome."

They have walked far enough now that the music and laughter of the feast are fading away; the slope becomes steeper, here, and they climb - Finrod first, with Maglor behind him - to an expanse of rock that allows them a view of the pools both above and below, and the river that flows out from the last. "I didn't think about the consequences," he repeats. "Not until afterward. I still don't know what I expected you - all of you - would do, but it wasn't..." His voice trails off. "The crossing," he begins again, with a shake of his head, "I can only imagine--"

"No," says Finrod, cutting him off. "You can't." In Finrod's eyes Maglor sees a ripple of rare anger; not an open flame, but something far colder. It lasts only a moment, though, before melting into sorrow, and then, an unreadable calm. He does not speak again for a long while.

Maglor allows him his silence, for a time; then gently, softly, he says, "I do not ask for unconditional forgiveness."

"I cannot grant it," Finrod says, with what seems like regret. "Yet," he says, and looks to the stars, "time can no more move backward than a river can flow upstream. And it seems to me we've always had a choice: we can dwell on things past and allow them to poison the present, or we can try to let them lie and move forward."

"And what will you choose?"

"Forward," Finrod says, plainly, and follows it with a soft sigh. "We've waited far too long for this, haven't we?"

"We had other priorities," is Maglor's explanation.

"Did we?" asks Finrod, but it's not a question meant to be answered.

In the quiet that follows, Maglor sinks to the ground, legs folded beneath him. Finrod comes to sit beside him, and puts words to Maglor's own thoughts.

"This," he says, extending his hand to indicate the waters around them, "feels a little familiar, doesn't it?"

"Reminds me of..." Maglor leaves the last word - home - unspoken. "Yes."

Something like the ghost of a smile passes over Finrod's face. "Those are some of the times I remember most clearly."

Maglor can only nod; his memories have not failed him. He sees, again, long nights under the stars, and waking to golden treelight, limbs entwined.

Wordlessly, Finrod reaches out, and, briefly, takes Maglor's hand. "I can make no promises," he says.

"I know," Maglor reassures him.

"Perhaps we should return."

"Not yet," says Maglor. He takes his harp from its bag, but does not play; instead, he holds it out.

With only the slightest hesitation, Finrod takes it, turning it in his hands. The song he begins is unfamiliar; Maglor closes his eyes, and listens.

* * *

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Chapter End Notes

Written for Libby for Slashy Valentine 2013. Many thanks to Elleth for beta, and also for listening to my near-constant flailing - I appreciate it so much.