The Love of Small Things by janeways

Chapter 1

In which Maedhros kind of overthinks it; or, we never stop being our parents’ children.

I realize umbrellas are most likely an anachronism, but it’s an anachronism I’m willing to live with here.

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“I have a what.”

Nerdanel turned, eyebrows furrowed, leaning in towards Maedhros. Her hammer and chisel were still clutched in her chalky hands, and Maedhros belatedly realized it was probably a good thing he’d said what he’d said when he did, while the chisel was still raised and poised to strike. Half a second later could have resulted in an, ah, interesting shape for the sculpture’s nose.

He steadied himself, and repeated:

“You have a new grandson.”

Nerdanel’s eyes squinted in confusion. Quickly, before a deluge of questions could erupt from his mother’s mouth, he continued, “That is, I’ve adopted another son. Like Elrond and Elros. So, you have a new grandson.”

Maedhros paused there hopefully. Nerdanel’s expression had not changed—in fact, she somehow looked even more befuddled, her mouth having inadvertently opened as she puzzled it out. Ever one for crisis control, Maedhros thought it best to answer as many questions as he could before she asked them. His mother had a way cutting straight to the heart of matters he sometimes wished were left a little more unexplored. “His name is—well, you’ve probably heard of him, actually—his name is Gil-galad—”

“The High King in Middle-Earth?” Nerdanel cut him off.

“Yes,” Maedhros answered, a little put out by being interrupted and having the story ruined, but used to his mother’s quick and inquisitive nature. “It’s a name I gave him, actually. He doesn’t have any parents, and hasn’t since he was small. He wrote to me, once he heard I was…out, to ask if, well, if I was his father—his sire, you understand,” Maedhros clarified. “And of course, I’m not, but he has silver hair, you see, and he never knew his parents. And as a boy, he was given an ëpessë, Ereinion, and so he thought…‘Scion of Kings,’ and all,” Maedhros finished, a little lamely, he thought.

“So he thought you were his father, because where else could he have gotten silver hair from a king of the Noldor?” Nerdanal prompted.

“Yes, exactly,” Maedhros replied, with somewhat more enthusiasm. “And it did seem so unfair for the lad—”

“Why?” Nerdanel interrupted, her eyes keen.

“Because…” Maedhros paused and sighed, looking away; girding up his courage, he continued, “Because he’s the son of…someone who died at Doriath, and I’m the one who found him and sent him to safety. I am, ultimately, responsible for his being orphaned.” Meeting his mother’s eyes at last, he said, “It seems only right I should be responsible for his parentage now.”

Nerdanel gave a small nod of understanding, her eyebrows still furrowed. Maedhros knew his mother well enough to know she guessed, probably rightly, at the boy’s true lineage and thus his own reticence to speak of it, but she respected him enough to let him have out with it in his own time. But then she asked something quite unexpected.

“I’m happy for you, of course, but Maedhros—how do you intend to be a father to a grown man, a world away?”

*

‘Damn,’ Maedhros thought. ‘Damn it all to the Void.’ How in Arda was he supposed to play father to an adult—not just an adult, but a capable king, a seasoned warrior, a respected leader, by all rights someone who should themselves be a father figure? That thought gave Maedhros pause. Was Gil-galad already a father? He hadn’t heard anything about children, or even a spouse, but then again, he hadn’t been out of Mandos all that long.

He barely even knew this man, and here he was trying to be—

Two thoughts struck Maedhros in such rapid succession they were almost simultaneous:

Elrond will know about him, and

How will I ever tell Elrond?

*

Sitting down at his too-small childhood desk, Maedhros shuffled some sheaves of parchment in an attempt to organize his thoughts. The more direct, the better—that had always been his philosophy. ‘Easier said than done,’ he thought. Be clear and understanding, but firm—that had been his method with the boys, and they’d turned out alright, hadn’t they?

Dipping his quill in ink, he sent out a silent prayer to—well, to whoever was listening, at this point—that in gaining one son, he would not lose another.

My son,

I am pleased to have received your last note in good time. It appears the late spring storms did not delay the ships from the Havens as you had feared they might. Tell Erestor to stop fussing about the crest—

“Lot of good that’ll do you,” Maedhros muttered to himself. “I spent centuries telling Erestor to stop fussing, and look where it got me.”

—and for the love of all that is holy, do not let my brother write another new song for the Gates of Summer. The one he sings now is long enough already. Tell him I said it may be hard to believe, but no one wants to hear his voice for five hours.

I have some news to share with you, which I hope will be happy. Your king, Gil-galad, recently wrote to me inquiring of his heritage, and while I am not his sire, I took it upon myself to be his father, if he will have me. He would be well within his rights to refuse me, of course. But, speaking plainly, he seems to want a family, and for whatever reasons, he seems to want especially to be part of this family. I thought it right to at least offer him that—however difficult the distance and strange the circumstances.

I know this may come as something of a shock to you, but I assure you, this decision was not made lightly on my part, nor was it made for mere political convenience. It was made, like the decision to bring you and Elros into my care, to right a wrong. Of the specifics it is not my place to say any more.

I remember as a small boy feeling quite put out with Maglor’s birth; after enjoying the undivided attention of my parents and grandparents, suddenly I seemed invisible next to this small bundle that could only, so far as I could surmise, cry and eat. But of course my parents cared equally for us both, and so in the rush of all this, I do not wish for you to feel ignored or insufficient. My son, know that I love you, and nothing will ever change that. Words mean little, and I was never one much for embraces, as I am sure you recall, but were I by your side, I would hold you now. I suppose Maglor will have to suffice, although he may then encourage you to speak of your feelings—be forewarned.

I know little of your lord, and any information you feel comfortable passing on, I would welcome. Indeed, if it pleases him, I should very much wish to strike up a correspondence not unlike this one. I did not speak lightly when I said I would be his father if he would have me! If he takes me on, he shall have to endure all the things young men must expect from their fathers: innumerable birthday cards (all signed by Fingon), unsolicited advice on topics ranging from white-smithing to romance, recollections of my own youth and its inevitable superiority to the present state of things, etc. etc.

I hope I have made you laugh at least a little, my son. I suppose poor jokes are one more thing to add to the list of things young men must endure from their fathers. You are my brightest jewel.

Love always,

Father

PS—Tell Maglor for me. I know he shall be upset not to have gotten his own letter, but the messenger for Tol Eressëa leaves in an hour. And besides, I know there are no secrets in this family for long.

*

The air hung heavy and thick in the gloaming. Leaves lay still in the trees; curtains, flat against windows and pillars. A storm was waiting to break, Gil-galad thought. He was perched on a chair on his verandah, itself situated several stories up, with a commanding view of the city and surrounding countryside—and any messengers who were due to return that night with letters born secretly across the Sundering Seas to the Gray Havens. Sensing his thoughts, Elrond remarked, “I wish it would rain and get it over with.”

“All this dampness without any of the pleasure of a splash in the warm rain,” laughed Gil-galad in reply. Erestor’s eyes widened in horror. Their robes.

A sly grin blossoming across his face, Elrond turned to Gil. Before he could utter whatever comment he had conjured up to further horrify Erestor, though, Gil-galad gave a shout, springing up from his chair. “I see them!”

“Let’s go meet them at the city gate, shall we?” suggested Elrond.

“Fine,” muttered Erestor, as the three of them began to gather themselves up and make their way inside. “But I’m bringing umbrellas.”

*

Several hours later, the storm had indeed broken, leaving that damp smell particular to late spring rains lingering in the night air. It smelled like wet grass, Gil-galad had always thought, wet grass and earth. For some reason, in the deepest part of him, he recognized it as the smell of home.

And home he was, he reminded himself. He felt lightheaded, euphoric and nauseous all at once, like he might be swept up on a breeze and carried outside himself. The smell of the rain, the dampness that still hung in the air and on the glistening world around him—he needed it to ground himself to this life.

Suddenly, Gil-galad was startled out of his reverie by the sight of another figure, sitting on the edge of one of the fountains a little ways off behind some trees. It was Elrond, he realized, himself lost in contemplation of a letter like the one Gil carried. Even for the elves, it was a late hour, and the stars being obscured by the still-lingering clouds, Gil-galad was surprised. Coming a little closer, he saw the letter bore Maedhros’s seal.

“Elrond?” he called hesitantly. He had no wish to startle his friend, or awaken anyone sleeping nearby, so he kept his voice low, reaching out with his mind as much as his words. Elrond’s head shot up, his face betraying all in a rare moment of vulnerability. In the instant their eyes met, they both knew.

Tentatively, Gil approached the fountain and sat beside Elrond, each staring into the garden beyond. Neither spoke for some time. Words seemed superfluous, somehow. When the moment felt right to him, Gil shifted a little in his seat, turning to face Elrond. Softly, so as not to break the stillness of the night, he murmured:

“Didn’t I always say you were like the little brother I never had?”

Chapter 2

Inspired by watching contestants on The Great British Baking Show fail miserably at making challah (or, as they called it, "plaited bread"). Written for Feanorian Fun Bingo on Tumblr, for the prompt, "Baking Bread."

(Also, try to covince me the elves didn't have some variant of matzah or other unleavened bread for the Great March to the sea. That stuff's designed for quick travel!)

A short chapter before I head up to the cabin for a few weeks - please enjoy this little tidbit! I'm trying to practice more with small, domestic scenes.

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To: Lord Erestor, Chief Loremaster, Royal Archives

From: The Office of the High King

Subject: Plaited bread?

My good sir:

I have a small favor to ask of you—it is not urgent, but it would merely serve to satisfy a craving of the gastronomic nature. As a child in the care of Círdan I remember often eating a sort of plaited bread, the name of which I have long forgotten. It was eggy, and it always had a lovely crisp on the outside. I think it was a recipe originally from Alqualondë. It was related, somehow, to a sort of unrisen bread the Teleri developed on the way to the Great Sea, which we still ate in remembrance of that great journey. It has been many centuries since I last was served any, but I desire to popularize it again, here in Lindon (at least at my table!). Would you be so kind as to find a recipe and send it to the kitchens? I know it will be a difficult job, but there is no one I trust more than you for such a task. I have half a mind (born, I think, of nostalgia) to have a go at it myself, but I know what you will say—my robes!

(sealed)

Gil-galad Ereinion

Erestor gaped at the memo. Try to find a recipe. For plaited Telerin bread with no apparent signifier. In a massive library spanning several buildings, most of which was dedicated to the history of the Noldor in Beleriand. As Erestor rose from his desk to locate some unlucky apprentices to accompany him to the Sindarin-language archives across the street, he muttered to himself, “What’s wrong with Noldorin bread?”

*

As it happened, Erestor could only find Maglor that particular afternoon. Perhaps the apprentices had all had a premonition and taken the day off. He had been wandering the section on songs of Doriath with a dreamy look in his eyes. Having been quickly enlisted into Erestor’s service, the two set to work and, after an afternoon of poring over Telerin cookbooks—why did they have so many Telerin cookbooks? Why did the Teleri have so many cookbooks at all? Why did Maglor insist on reading aloud every recipe he deemed interesting?—they found something that looked promising.

Well, promising was a relative term. Six strands, and several rounds of proofing and resting, meant that this bread was something of an all-day affair—all for a deceptively simple bread of what was essentially flour, water, eggs, yeast, with a little salt, sugar, and honey.

“The head cook will have my head if I deliver this to her and tell her the King wants it on his table by the next night!” Erestor exclaimed, his face contorted into a look of utter despair.

“So let him bake it himself,” Maglor responded with his typical nonchalance. “That’s how it always was with my family. If you want something, you had to give it a go yourself.”

“But—”

“They make aprons, Erestor.”

“…I will strongly recommend an artist’s smock. And supervision.”

Maglor shook his head, his laugh like a song. “Supervision by whom? Shall I call in Círdan himself?” He got a look in his eyes, suddenly, an epiphany cresting over his features. “I’ve got an even better idea!”

Erestor steeled himself.

“He and Elrond and I shall bake it together! For the household, as a treat. You should join us, Erestor!” Putting on his best “charming prince” face, Maglor smiled. “It’s just bread, Erestor. What could go wrong?”

‘Famous last words in the House of Finwë,’ thought Erestor. Blinking, and settling into his obliging tone, the one signaling that once more, logic and reason had been defeated in the face of Fëanorian charm, he replied, “What indeed, my lord?”

Chapter 3

In which Maglor is his mother’s son; or, the difference between kindness and weakness, justice and prudence.

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—And all I get is an, “Oh, by the way?” Really, brother? What did you expect the poor lad to do, casually drop it into conversation—"Oh yes, Ada, I did very much enjoy that book you lent me, oh and by the way, Atar has adopted the High King, who, by the way, is actually one of Dior’s sons, whom Atar saved and never told you about, just so you know?” Ilúvatar above, Maedhros, I’m happy for you—beyond happy! overjoyed! bursting with emotion! I have a new nephew!—but you might have written me and saved your poor son the trouble.

As it so happened, Elrond and Gil-galad had come to see Maglor together. A hesitant knock, followed by an, “Ada? Are you busy just now?” had preceded what Maglor considered possibly the most awkward encounter of his life—certainly, of this age. They had all sat together in the small area he kept for visitors, discomfort radiating off Elrond and Gil-galad as though they were small children caught in the act of something they weren’t supposed to be doing. There had been much “um”ing and “uhh”ing, much fidgeting, much hedging—but very little coherent speech. Maglor had always thought Elrond tended towards silence when nervous, and that day his son had sat unnaturally straight, tugging at his sleeves and studiously avoiding eye contact. Gil-galad, usually unruffled even in the most trying of circumstances, had seemed utterly lost, starting and stopping and starting over in the search for the right words. Finally, in desperation, Elrond had all but thrown a letter at him, hurriedly making an excuse for why they had to be off, before the two of them flew out of Maglor’s room in a most undignified manner.

Maglor smiled to himself as he turned the memories over in his mind. ‘No matter how old you are, your parents can still make you feel like a naughty child,’ he thought to himself. He was a son of Fëanor and Nerdanel; he knew that feeling well. He thought of his mother, then, and tried to imagine her reaction to all this. Not unlike his own, he ventured to guess. Unimaginable joy and unfathomable rage, neither tempering the other but swirling together like oil and vinegar, an emotion with a unique flavor Maglor couldn’t quite name. He was unsure if he cared for the taste of it.

Brother, I am not upset by the action itself—I think, all things considered, it was not unwise to remove the boy in haste and secrecy—but it is beyond my comprehension why you did not think at least to tell me. Surely you did not think me capable of such barbarism, to make war on a child? Or such indiscretion as to let slip the truth and send soldiers running in pursuit?

Maglor paused, his breathing quick and shallow. Putting words to paper had helped steady his emotions—it always did, the physical movement and linear nature of writing forcing a distillation of the roiling feelings within. As he sat with his thoughts, a new one rose to the surface—

—No, worse; once you made up your mind—I will spare you the “without consulting me,” for I would have agreed with you in that instance—you thought if you told me, I would be imprudent enough to insist on keeping him for the sake of morality, unnecessarily endangering a child who had already had one attempt on his life.

You shock me, brother. I thought of all people, you were among the few who had never mistaken my kindness for weakness.

Maglor thought then of Sirion aflame and two small, scared faces, their fear mirrored for the briefest moment in Maedhros’s. He had wondered about that, thinking, perhaps, that in that flicker of distress across his brother’s face, he was witnessing a moment of regret, acknowledging the horror of what they had become. Maglor’s kindness had not been weakness then—but Sirion was not Doriath. In the back of his mind, Maglor repressed the uncomfortable thought that without the hard-learned lesson of Dior’s children, the discovery of Elwing’s sons might have seemed a very different situation to some of his and his brothers’ followers. Elros and Elrond were by blood Gil-galad’s—Eluréd’s—nephews, Maglor remembered dimly.

Maglor realized what he had seen then in his brother’s eyes was not only fear but memory: the anxiety that in reaching out to hold these children, Maedhros would only hurt them; the unspeakable sight of history regurgitating itself in front of him, offering a terrible glimpse of all the possibilities could have been and could come to be. The fear, he realized, had been Maedhros’s own fear of himself, but not in the way he had believed. No, this was worse, this was intimate. Had Maedhros, every time he thought of his sons, thought also of a small boy, lost in the forest?

The anger in Maglor’s stomach cooled to pity. Whatever the circumstances, he had a new nephew—Maglor had the fleeting thought that, speaking of nephews, someone really ought to tell Celebrimbor about all this—and both Gil-galad and Maedhros would need his support in the years that followed.

Picking up his quill again, he continued:

I have often though that kindness is often justice as it is weakness. We are all of us capable of things we never thought we would be capable of, both good and ill. Yes, good, even if history remembers only the ill—for we have sons, and they will remember the good for us.

Now, brother, on the subject of sons, let me tell you of yours—

---

Chapter End Notes

A point of clarification: in my headcanon, I see Maedhros and Maglor essentially co-adopting the boys—or at least, that’s how it works out in the end, trepidation on both the twins’ and Maedhros’s part being eventually overcome. I think Elrond was perhaps closer to Maglor, and so calls him “Ada,” the Sindarin diminutive for father (like “Dad” or “Papa”), whereas Maedhros he calls “Atar,” the Quenya for the more formal “Father.” It’s reflective of his relationship with each, but it’s also a simple way to distinguish between the two.

Chapter 4

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It was morning in Valinor, and the sun was shining. Well, the sun was almost always shining in Valinor, but right now it happened to be shining directly into Fingon’s eyes. He sat, resolute, at the little dining table in his breakfast nook. Fingon loved the breakfast nook for the way it caught the early morning light, but it was now closer to mid-day, and the angle was all wrong—alright, if Fingon was being honest, everything was all wrong. He sighed in frustration, tossing his quill onto the pile of parchment scattered across the table.

‘Whatever am I supposed to say?’ he thought to himself hopelessly. And yet, he felt he ought to say something. It would be awkward if he didn’t say something, wouldn’t it? He was the son of Fingolfin, after all; he had been raised to take duty to family very seriously. But what sort of duty does one have to the fully-grown, adopted son of one’s lover? He laughed aloud at the sheer absurdity of it all. ‘Only in the House of Finwë,’ he thought.

A squirrel clambered up on the tree branch near the window. Sniffing the air, it looked through the window and chirped at him. He smiled encouragingly, and it considered him for a moment before scampering away, fluffy tail bouncing.

‘Perhaps the best thing is to stop thinking over-much about it,’ Fingon thought, and, picking up his quill once more, he began to write.

To the High King Gil-galad Ereinion, from Findekáno Ñolofinwion

My good sir,

It is a pleasure to finally begin a formal correspondence—well, any correspondence!—with you. I felt given my close—

“Um,” said Fingon aloud. How much of Maedhros’s personal life was known to the lad? Maedhros was a private sort of man; Fingon would hate to speak out of turn to someone who was, for all intents and purposes, a perfect stranger. Amongst the Noldor, he and Maedhros were something of an open secret—well, considering they were currently building a house together, Fingon doubted they were even a secret anymore—but Fingon did not know how much First Age gossip had passed down to Gil-galad about the High Kings and their love lives. ‘Well,’ he thought, ‘Erestor can fill him in,’ and continued on:

—relationship with Nelyo—that is, Maedhros—it was only appropriate for me to make your acquaintance. I would not be so presumptuous as to write to you under the pretense of offering advice on king-ing—considering I was only High King for about five minutes, compared to you, it really ought to be the other way around! No, but what I can offer you is plenty of embarrassing stories about Maedhros when he was young and foolish. Well, compared to myself and my siblings, or even compared to most of his, really, he was never terribly foolish, but still, every young person has their folly.

I was, of course, hopelessly in love with him from the moment I saw him. Everyone was, but me especially. I was only a child; he was my tutor, and I loved him before I understood what that was. All I knew was I wanted so desperately to be around him, to make him proud, to see him smile. And what a smile! All the more beautiful for being rare, even in those days.

As I grew out of childhood, I began to realize my feelings for what they were, which, may I say, was an absolutely mortifying experience. I think I spent the entirety of my “in-between” years being tortuously self-aware of every ungraceful action or word—and at that age, there are so many. At the time, I thought Maedhros was merely being polite in not acknowledging what seemed to me a glaringly obvious crush, but the extraordinary thing is I think he really had no idea! Lucky for me.

By the time I reached the age of ascension, I had convinced myself we were nothing more than friends. By this point I had returned to my own household, and for many years saw Maedhros very rarely. Apparently, this had little effect; as soon as I felt mature enough to strike up a correspondence, we were often in each other’s company, now as companions and equals and no more as student and teacher. We were genuine friends, just two men enjoying each other’s’ company—that’s what I told myself. Enjoying each other’s’ company, indeed! Still, I thank myself—if I hadn’t so doggedly pursued a friendship with him, he never would have gotten to know me as a person—an individual, an equal, not only as a pupil, if you understand my meaning.

Fingon paused, his first break in a steady stream of consciousness. The memory of his old body was faint, but he still remembered in his muscles the ache in his chest of those years he spent apart from Maedhros. (Sometimes, in Beleriand, he had felt the echo of that ache, and for a long time, he had not understood it.) He had been happy, of course. He was Fingon; he was always happy, even when he wasn’t. He had been happy, but not fulfilled—not entirely.

He picked up his quill again.

I won’t bore you with all the details—this was done as much to spare Maedhros as Gil-galad—but suffice it to say that slowly, our relationship grew deeper and more intimate—

Abruptly, Fingon stopped short, and then snorted, before continuing—

—and before we knew it, we were, well, “together,” as they say. I was still a young man then, and for all that I was brash, and still tripping over my own feet, Maedhros was elegant, and considerate, and intelligent. And tall. Very tall. It utterly escaped me what this handsome, well-spoken, thoughtful man (the most sought-after bachelor in all of Aman!) saw in me. It still does! He called me “valiant” when all I ever felt in those days was foolhardy.

My very first memory of him is this: I arrived at my uncle Feanor’s household, scared out of my wits, homesick before my tutelage had even begun. And Maedhros had come out to greet us, and when he saw me, he smiled. He was perfect, and I have never loved another since.

*

Maedhros tapped the tip of his quill against the inkpot. He always did that when he was thinking; it helped him focus. He was writing Gil-galad to “introduce” him, as it were, to the family—not who they were, of course, that was in any history book, but a little of what they were like as people, their interests. His memories of them. The sort of thing one was unlikely to find in a history book.

Or so he hoped.

He had always been reserved, no less princely than his father, but more reticent to share the intimate parts of himself. Thus, emphasis on the intimate, his current dilemma. Maedhros had made it fairly easily through his immediate family, devoting much time to his mother and making it through a discussion of his father and brothers mostly without incident—which he considered a notable feat—before beginning the Ñolofinwean section. Uncle Fingolfin’s paragraph had gone smoothly: the two of them had always had a strong connection, being closer in age and disposition to brothers than uncle and nephew. (And closer in disposition than Maedhros ever was to Fëanor, whispered a voice in the back of his mind.)

And then, next in the neat little genealogical exercise Maedhros had laid out, was Fingon.

It wasn’t that Maedhros was concerned how Gil might view the relationship; Beleriand had been, in his experience, more liberal in both thought and practice than the Valinor of his youth when it came to intimate relationships, half-cousins or no. (‘Well,’ he considered, ‘maybe not in Turgon’s house.’ It was unlikely anything had been liberal there.) Even in Aman people more or less shrugged their shoulders and carried on when they encountered such things nowadays. It wasn’t fear of judgment, it was just—

He simply didn’t know how to do it.

Maedhros was not regarded as one of the more emotional members of his family—not, of course, that this was particularly difficult given some people he was related to—and in general felt a great discomfort when speaking of, dealing with, or indeed acknowledging emotions more complex than, say, hunger. Being a prince, he had learned to mask this discomfort with a heavy dose of Fëanorian Charm, but the truth was that Maedhros had never felt he was any good at talking about his feelings.

And so he hadn’t talked about his feelings to Gil, not really. He had written about what he knew of people, what he admired, what he remembered. Little stories and anecdotes he felt encapsulated the nature of that person, and of his relationship with them. But with Fingon, it felt impossible to share so many of those moments without first some explanation as to who Fingon really was to him. Perhaps if he related only the facts of their relationship—how they met, how they became what they were to each other—it would spare them both: Maedhros, the embarrassment of writing what he considered lurid and saccharine details, and Gil-galad, the embarrassment of reading them.

I first met my half-cousin Fingon when he was a boy, sent to study in our household. He spent many years with us, mostly under my tutelage, and by the time he left, he was a man in his own right, poised to assume the duties of a prince. I thought him particularly well-suited for the job: cheerful and polite, but intelligent and determined. He shortly began a correspondence, which pleased me, and thereafter we were rarely apart, for, having come into full manhood, I found him a pleasing companion and friend. It is gratifying for those of us who have been teachers to watch our students grow into adults, and to come to know and respect them as equals, as they have respected us.

Thus, a relationship of some intimacy developed. Pleased though I was at the attention Fingon bestowed upon me, especially in beginning our correspondence, I was also surprised—not only that he should seek the friendship of his former teacher, but that a gallant and popular young man would seek the attention of someone so reserved and bookish as myself. But I found he brought out the best in me, as I came to know him better—my humility, my humor, my kindness.

And so, when he first confessed his feelings to me, I realized I had quite accidentally fallen in love with him.

It was suggested that my uncle had sent my cousin to study in our household as a sort of peace offering, an appeal to my father—a way to bridge our two families. It certainly worked, although perhaps not in the manner intended. We had been friends—true friends—for so long I hardly remembered the boy I had known centuries before. He had grown into a person whom I cared for, yes, but more importantly, whom I respected as a prince and a leader. Someone I admired.

In all things he has been my partner, and it has been my great privilege to share my life with him.

Maedhros paused, feeling like he had caught his breath for the first time since he had started writing that passage. He purposefully untensed his muscles, picked up his quill again, and, setting it to the page once more, continued:

Turgon.

He sighed.

*

Gil-galad looked up from his letters at Elrond. They sat, as they often did, with Erestor and Maglor in a small, semi-private chamber Gil had begun calling his “family room.” (Amused, Maglor had informed him that Celegorm had often called such rooms “dens.”) A crackling fire illuminated Elrond’s face, reflecting in his eyes, which were now raised to meet Gil-galad’s.

“Did you know about Adar and King Fingon?” he asked quietly. Across the room, Erestor’s eyes widened, and Maglor’s face spread into a wicked grin.

“Everyone in wider Beleriand knew about my brother and Fingon,” interjected Maglor, with a laugh. “There were at least a dozen drinking songs about the two of them.”

“You ought to know,” sniffed Erestor, who was pointedly refusing to look up from his book. “You wrote half of them.” Maglor was positively beaming.

Elrond ignored them; having gotten up to stand behind Gil-galad’s chair, he was too engrossed in attempting to read over the king’s shoulder. Skimming the page, he said, “I knew a little, but this tells me nothing new, save that Fingon was the one who confessed to Adar.”

“I always knew it would be Fingon,” said Maglor. “Moryo was running bets—on who would confess first, and when—and I won the whole pool,” he finished proudly. Holding up a finger, he recalled, “‘Fingon, at sunset, by the beech tree, in summer.’ Oh, don’t look so aghast, Erestor; you bet, too, you’re just still upset you didn’t win.” Quirking his eyebrow, Elrond turned his gaze to Gil-galad. This is what you’re getting yourself into, his expression seemed to say. Are you sure you’re prepared?

Gil-galad just smiled.

Chapter 5

In which Erestor is a little less fussy librarian, a little more Indiana Jones; or

Restore, verb. 1) To bring back, reinstate; 2) to return; 3) to repair.

Read Chapter 5

The first thing that Erestor noticed was the shadow across his page. “You are blocking my light,” he said, not bothering to raise his eyes from the work in front of him. Then, it occurred to him that the rest of the room was nearly as dark as the shadow. Looking up, he saw one of his assistants standing before him, wringing the hem of her sleeves between her fingers.

“Um,” she started.

“No, it’s quite alright,” Erestor interjected, anticipating her request. “I’ve been quite negligent in keeping track of the time. Please, everyone, enjoy your evenings, and I’ll see you all in the morning.” He gave a small smile, hoping he had spared the shy assistant from some of the anxiety of asking. Erestor may have had a reputation for being exacting, and he himself was known to burn the candles low, but he did not think himself inconsiderate. He saw the wave of relief that swept across the room, visible on his assistants’ faces even in the dying light. Calling out their farewells, they slowly filed down the stairs, out into the night, and Erestor was left alone.

*

If, by chance, a passerby on the street below would have happened to glance up at the highest floor, they would have seen a vast room with many windows, lit by a single, flickering candle, the only star in that dark expanse.

*

The candle sputtered, flaring up in one last valiant attempt at brilliance as it burned its last inch. Sighing, Erestor considered letting it burn out completely, but decided against it. If he stopped now, he would still have time to record the day’s progress in his research log. Stretching, Erestor thought wryly that he wasn’t the young man he had been a few millennia ago. He walked to the window, gazing out over the streets and plazas below. Beneath a cloudless sky, the city was quiet, and the scent of spice wafted through the open window on a warm breeze. The moon seemed high and very, very far away.

The research log—at this point too ponderous to be easily lifted and carried about—occupied a place of prominence on a lectern below a large window. There, it could by lit by the moon and the stars, on clear nights, should Erestor have burned through his last candle of the night. The last several pages had been filled in the course of the past week: ruin-divers had returned with several cartloads of artefacts from their latest venture at Tol Himring, and he and his assistants had been busy organizing, cataloguing, and cross-referencing. Soon, they would be ready to decide what pieces would be installed in one of Lindon’s several museums, which would be reserved for continuing study, and which would be archived. Any personal or family effects would be returned to next of kin, if possible.

Erestor reviewed yesterday’s log in preparation for today’s entry. Below the date, a few short lines, barely qualified to be called sentences:

Assisted in deciphering faded engraving on item #187356 (plate—fragment). Appears to have been either commemorative plate or celery dish.

Cross-referenced items #187893 – 187945. Catalogued items #188372 – 189125.

Made significant progress in restoring item #187432 (vase). Displays similarities to vase Elrond and Elros broke as children. Same studio/potter? Part of set? (I don’t remember a set?) Further inquiry required.

But as he moved to pick up his pen, a burst of wind swept through the window and over the room, whipping the pages of his log book back. Across the room, loose papers fluttered to the floor, rustling as they settled, and Erestor let out a tightly-controlled sigh. He felt tired, more tired than he remembered having felt in a long time, and he made no move to begin cleaning up the mess, or to find his lost place. A date on the page caught his eye, and almost without meaning to, he began to read.

—truly believe we are making significant progress at restoring what was lost, if only in part. Great was my grief at the sack of Nargothrond, and greater still at the fall of Gondolin for my friend and rival Pengolodh, but no longer does my task seem insurmountable, or the knowledge we bore out of the West lost beyond all memory. Every day my hope increases.

Erestor paused, his fingers slowly tracing the words he had written millennia ago, at the dawn of the Second Age, when this world seemed born again, new and full of potential. Slowly, he turned the page, skimming his account of that first expedition to Himring—Tol Himring, as it has become. There had been little need for a librarian during the construction of a city, and so, after arranging the design of libraries and museums with the city planners and architects, Erestor undertook his first official act as the freshly-appointed Chief Loremaster of Lindon: he gathered up recruits and set off for the coast. As it turned out, they were wildly successful, and their burgeoning realization that there would be enough artefacts to sustain several ventures—not to mention the lure of lost treasure untold—bolstered their spirits even further. It represented a reclamation that only a few months before had seemed impossible.

—pleasure at our success has led to the immediate discussion of subsequent ventures, not only to Tol Himring but reconnaissance missions to determine the potential accessibility of other underwater sites, as well as land expeditions to sites rumored or assumed to contain weapons, jewels—

As the expeditions continued, Erestor began to garner something of a curious and unexpected reputation. His strong sense of propriety, immaculate personal grooming, and devotion to organization had always lent him an air of primness. And accordingly, many at first assumed Erestor would take a managerial approach to leadership, leaving the dirty work—literally—of excavation to his assistants.

But Erestor had, for many years, almost until the end, been a loyal member of Maedhros’s household, which made him not only a veteran but a survivor; he had endured much hardship with little complaint, and—as had all the Fëanorians and their followers—he had learned by experience that nothing of value is without its price. (He had learned also that when one’s heart is set, no price is too dear.)

So what was a little mud to help clean up the mess of history? Stains did not matter on clothes worn expressly for outdoor work; hands accustomed to hard labor could still be softened with proper daily care; living and working in a tent was not mutually exclusive to running one’s household and community with order and hygiene. He was not to inflexible as to break at pressure.

In fact, the tenacity and dedication (and indeed, particular-ness) that made him so formidable in the library translated well to the field: he worked the hardest for the longest, rising early and staying up late. He volunteered for the most treacherous missions with no mind for glory. He was generous in his guidance and fearless in his leadership, and he approached the task at hand with a single-mindedness that inspired awe and concern in almost equal measure. Quite accidentally, Erestor’s example had encouraged a whole generation of would-be adventurer-scholars.

No artefact seems now too small, or too insignificant. For those who are young, and did not live through that age of glitter and gore, these shards and fragments make real what was once little more than a fairy tale, and offer a supplement to the memories of those who were there—immeasurably valuable but always partial and incomplete. And for those of us who were there, they offer the small comfort that our lives mattered—not only the lives and deeds of great lords and kings, but the lives of ordinary people, people we knew and loved, many of whom live no longer, except in us.

Turning the pages, he continued to skim, skipping over the centuries like a stone on the waves. Over time, the entries grew shorter, their sense of wonder and depth of feeling slowly replaced by a sense of mundane routine, and where each recovery had once seemed a miracle, they came to be seen as pleasantly inevitable. More and more, he remained in Lindon, leaving the quests to be headed by others.

As the centuries rolled on, it was taken for granted that new discoveries would turn up, or that backlogged archives would yield fresh insights. That the past was another life, a separate life, to be dutifully catalogued and meticulously analyzed—gloves on, please! not too much light there, now!—but never to be felt, experienced, enjoyed. Artefacts sat in museums above little placards with dates and explanations, but no real connection to the people who made and used them. Their lives, too, had been dutifully catalogued—dictated and taken down, organized, analyzed, archived, and left to gather dust, these fragments, the bones of their memories.

Dawn was breaking over the city, the sky blushing into day. Erestor blinked the soreness out of his eyes. He had slept not a wink, but he felt more awake than he ever had after a good night’s rest.

A few hours later, as the last of his assistants filtered in and took their seats at their desks, he cleared his throat, and standing, called out in a loud, clear voice, “I have an announcement to make.”

*

“Well, I think it’s just splendid,” remarked Gil-galad as he adjusted his crown. It was one of his nice ones—nice, but not too nice. I-want-to-make-an-effort-without-being-showy-because-tonight-is-not-about-me kind of nice. “Do you think this looks alright?” he asked Elrond.

“It looks fine,” replied Elrond, without looking.

“You didn’t look!”

“You always look nice,” called Maglor from the hallway. His voice carried a firmness wrapped in mirth. “Come now, or we shall be late, and Erestor is like to scold us in front of everyone.”

“He would scold his own lord, High King of all his people in Middle Earth?” Gil-galad asked, a laugh pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“It’s never stopped him before.”

*

En route to the city’s main theater, Elrond picked up the threads of their earlier conversation. “It’s truly a novel idea, I’ll give him that.”

“Yes,” said Maglor, “I was quite intrigued when he approached me as a consultant. By now, you know, there are so few of us who remember what it was like—I mean not just the history, but the intimate details, how people lived their lives.” He let out a short laugh. “It’s odd, the things you remember.”

“Was…were your relatives able to provide any assistance?” Gil-galad inquired cautiously. Inwardly, he cursed himself for hedging. He had still not quite worked up the courage to speak to Maglor about the “Maedhros situation,” as he had taken to thinking of it. After his first attempt had failed—not in the sense of Maglor finding out, because of course he had, but failing in the sense of actually having a real conversation about it—Gil had just never been able to find quite the right moment, and as the weeks slipped past, it seemed more and more uncomfortable to raise the subject. By now, he had resigned himself to wait hopelessly for Maglor to spare him the agony and simply bring it up himself.

“Oh yes,” Maglor replied airily, seeming to catch on, “Maedhros was especially helpful. He has such an excellent memory. In fact,” Maglor continued, “he took the opportunity to inform me of many new and interesting details of the First Age, of which I was previously unaware.” Gil-galad’s heart skipped a beat; his meaning could not be misunderstood. “But perhaps in not telling me,” Maglor added softly, “he meant only to let others tell their own stories in their own time.” He turned his head to look at Elrond and Gil-galad, and gave a knowing smile.

“You mean, he trusted you would have absolutely no respect for privacy and read his letter to me, like everyone else in this family,” said Elrond.

There was a startled pause from all of them—even Elrond himself, who looked like he could hardly believe what he’d just blurted out—and then Maglor laughed; they all of them laughed at the sheer absurdity of it all, and then they laughed for joy.

*

On the stage, Erestor cleared his throat, and the murmurs of the audience quelled to a respectful hush. “Thank you so very much for joining us,” he began. “As Chief Loremaster, it has long been my duty, and my privilege, to preserve and restore manuscripts, artefacts, and indeed first-hand accounts of our world’s history.

“But what does it mean to truly restore, and how does one restore a memory? A manuscript may have its faded letters re-inked, or an artefact may be cleaned and polished, but repairing is not the same as reclaiming. Nor indeed can the frayed edges of stories be repaired without being rewoven.

“It is in this spirit that I present our latest endeavor: a recreation, as it were—an attempt to bring our collection to life. Each vignette at this performance centers on an object, a person, an event, or a location, using both artefacts and personal accounts—often multiple ones, intertwined with one another—to re-construct a narrative. In other words, to make history real.

“All of the stories you will hear, and all of the objects you will see, belonged to real people. Some of them were my friends. Some of them may have been your friends. All of them were loved by someone. Today, we honor them, and we honor the stories yet to be told.”

*

Afterwards, Erestor joined Gil-galad, Elrond, and Maglor in the king’s apartments. Stirring his drink, he said casually, “You know, it’s been rather a long time, but I’m considering leading the next archeological mission myself.”