For the First Time in Forever by quillingmesoftly

By the Baranduin

An unexpected meeting.

Read By the Baranduin

The Baranduin was a peaceful river. Not that he was travelling along the Baranduin. He was simply lingering near the estuary, where the river poured into the ocean, where the forest thinned out. The smell was salty and sharp, and yet there was greenery on the bank, even though it was only the tough beach grasses that were able to tolerate the mixture of salty and clean water. He had decided to leave his little stretch of beach, just for a while, and had come across one of his snares in the near-by willow grove, broken. So for the past half an hour or so, he had sat against the willow, mending the torn leather, singing the lament for the Ambarussa as he worked.

“You have a good voice.”

The remark came with a wisp of warm breath on his cheek, and he yelped as he shot to his feet. Unfortunately, he didn’t put the needle down first; this resulted in another yip of pain as the needle pierced through the skin of his thumb, as he turned to face the (evidently very quiet) newcomer.

Her skin was dark, like bronze. Her nose was hooked, her large eyes were the hazel colour that some of the Haladin had had – but she couldn’t be a fíriel; her ears were pointed, and her blond hair tumbled all the way to her hips in loose waves. She wore green leggings, and a sleeveless brown jerkin, and pale blue paint adorned her arms in swirling designs. And she had not spoken in Sindarin, even though the meaning of the words imprinted itself in his mind as if she had. Still, his ears knew what he'd heard, and it was not Sindarin. Beneath an aura of summer warmth, she crackled with power, and the smell of a lightning strike hung in the air around her.

Finally, she wore a bow slung over her shoulder, as well as a quiver of arrows, and a bone dagger at her hip, with the easy confidence of someone who knew how to use it. The good news was that she hadn’t used it on him yet.

She frowned up at him, her gaze settling on him. Well, why wouldn’t she be frowning?

“You've stabbed yourself.” She pointed at his thumb.

…He’d forgotten about that, in his attempt to discern whether she was – well, almost certainly not a friend. Maglor was quite sure that, errant foster son aside, he didn’t have any friends left on these shores. So his options were reduced to either ‘other traveller’ or ‘foe.’

He felt a blush spread across his face, all the way to the tips of his ears, like he had not since he was a youth in Aman. A very small amount of blood welled up from his thumb. He ignored it, and removed the needle. 

The woman smiled, and the effect was dazzling. Maglor had a sudden impression of the trail of hearts which must have been left broken and shattered in her wake, much like the devastation that Maitimo had once wrought among the female population of Tirion. Her eyes took in the grove, and she frowned again. Puzzlement, almost, seemed to be the expression on his face. He scanned his resting spot. No, nothing he could see that was very out of the ordinary.

"What is this?" she asked, crouching to prod at the lap harp experimentally. Her eyes widened when the strings twanged in response to her touch.

"It's a harp," he said, frowning. Just where was she from? She seemed to contemplate that for a minute, before nodding and smiling at him again.

"Would you play?" 

He quirked an eyebrow. It had been a very long time since someone with no history with him had asked that question. A long time, indeed.

He flexed his hands. Well enough to play a song, at least. After that, would no doubt come some crippling agony, but he could conceal that long enough for the traveller to be on her way.

And – he could not have said what decided him. Whether it was her apparent ignorance of who he was, the fact that she looked him in the eye undaunted and unafraid, or the fact that her smile was warm enough to melt the Helcaraxë.

But he picked up the harp, settling it on his lap.

“Do you have a request, lady?”

She laughed, and launched into a melody, a fast, wordless song that had the water rippling in a counterpoint. He watched the Baranduin cautiously as he thrummed a harmony, but it did not seem to be rising to claim him. So she was not trying to drown him through a song of power.

…Centuries on, and he could almost hear Maedhros’ exasperated sigh. Not to mention exactly what he’d say if Maglor informed him of the situation.

Lauro. You accede to a request to play for her, and then to think to worry about whether she’d try and drown you?

Well, no-one had ever claimed that he was rational when it came to his music, had they?

She sang for – he didn’t know for how long. But while his ear had stayed entranced by her music, the playing had driven the pain of his hand from its normal fierce ache to outright agony. He clenched his jaw to try and hide the pain, but it did not seem to avail, as his partner stopped mid-note. As she did, the water stilled.

“You're in pain,” she said, frowning. Her eyes turned piercing, as her eyes found his hand. “Hmm.”

She began a low sound; not the light, laughing melody of before. It was still wordless, and pitched lower, sweet and soothing. It took him to a slow-moving stream, over a stony creek-bed, and Maglor breathed in the sweet smell of a forest in bloom for a moment, instead of the sharp smell of salt. The blinding pain in his hand – lessened. No longer fierce agony it had become. The woman pulsed with power, and still, she sang. It was an ache, now.

Her voice trailed off, and he waited for the pain to return. But all that remained was the gnawing ache.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her eyes clouding. “I cannot – something is blocking me, resisting me– but that makes no sense! Do you not wish to heal?”

Ah. For all the power that the young woman had, she clearly still had a lot to learn, to be asking that question.

“That is a very complicated story,” he said. One which you should know, if your parents have even barely educated you.

The woman smiled a hopeful smile. Maglor’s breath caught in his throat. The last time he’d seen an expression on someone’s face like that directed at him–

“I have time,” she said, and she blinked. “That is – if you do not mind me sharing your camp.”

Truth be told, he hadn’t intended to camp here at all. The choice loomed before him: go back to his beach, and let the lady to wander? Or stay the night and build a fire?

The habits of centuries told him to go, that she would be fine, clearly she was much more powerful than anything else she was likely to encounter, and that she’s much better off without him around, that he should go back to his exile. It was nothing less than he deserved, after all.

He looked at the pretty green-brown eyes again.

The little spark of him that remained Kanafinwë Makalaurë, rather than Maglor, blazed white-hot, and whispered something else.

“I do not mind at all,” he heard himself say.

The little voice that sounded like Maedhros spoke again. Lauro, you are incorrigible. 

“Just one question, though,” he said. “Just one. Who are you?”

She smiled. “I am Neniellë. And you are Kanafinwë Makalaurë. Commonly known as Maglor Fëanorion.”

…She had known this entire time?

He eyed her warily. “Most people at this point usually either scream and run, or scream and attempt to stab me. Whilst reciting my misdeeds.”

They certainly don’t attempt to heal me of a punishment inflicted by the Valar.

Neniellë's nose wrinkled. “I think I would rather listen to you sing again,” she said. “I shall go gather kindling for a fire. Try not to stab yourself,” she added, with yet another charming grin.

Maglor frowned at her, as she walked out of the clearing, and felt better than he had in centuries.

 

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Chapter End Notes

Goldberry smelling like lightning is inspired by thearrogantemu's wonderful, heart-wrenching stories, where all of the Ainur smell like ozone. I couldn't resist that detail. 

The first chapter takes place on the banks of the forest that will eventually be known as the Eryn Vorn. Sorry I couldn't make it clearer!

And yeah, I know in canon that Goldberry is described as having pale skin, but...I really don't care. 

Sunset

In which we learn a little more about the state of the world and Goldberry, and Maglor is not even a little bit charmed. Really. 

Read Sunset

She came back over an hour later, with three rabbits slung over her shoulder, the legs tied together, and an armload of driftwood in her arms. He stood, a remnant of Makalaurë surfacing in the manners that Nerdanel had hammered into them, and scooped half of the logs out of her arms. We might be murderers, but we’re polite, Caranthir had grimly joked as he performed a similar task after Alqualondë.

“Are you sure about using driftwood?” he couldn’t help but ask. From experience, he knew the stuff was considerably more difficult to light than a forest wood, often as it was still water-logged. And the wood in his arms did feel somewhat damp.

She nodded, setting them down in a neat horizontal row. His brows rose. “I did not want to have to walk back to the forest,” she said, gesturing to the groves of the Eryn Vorn in the distance behind her. “The beach is much closer.”

Well, very understandable, but still. “It’s hard to get it to catch alight,” he reminded her. And you are not of Fëanáro’s bloodline. It would be harder for you, would it not?

Neniellë grinned, and gestured for him to set the logs down. He obeyed, setting them down beside hers.

She hummed a few notes, and then began another melody that built to a crescendo. He did not understand the language that it was in, but it was in a language, unlike the one she had sung earlier, which was pure power and melody. He felt the air around them become more humid as she sang, until the smell of water hung heavy in the air. She frowned with concentration, and then sang again, playful and witty, and a sea breeze blew through their site, scattering the humidity to the winds.

She knelt, touched the logs, and nodded in satisfaction, smiling at him, unmistakeable pride in her glance. He didn’t have the heart to do anything other than smile at the look.

“Impressive,” he said, offering the affirmation she sought. And impressive it was. Maglor could think of very few Elves who could have done such a thing, let alone with such ease and skill and so little visible effort.

Neniellë’s smile turned almost impish. “Thank you. Sadly, I lack a flint and steel. I have to ask you to start the fire.”

Maglor smiled. “Why don’t you hand me those rabbits, as well? I’m not sure I trust one so young with the cooking,” he teased. Though that was hardly the truth of it. Still, he wasn’t sure whether she’d understand that out of the two of them, it was simply his job to do the cooking.

Her hazel eyes widened in indignation. It was a rather pretty sight, framed by her gold hair, and her bronze skin set alight by the setting sun on the estuary behind her.

“I am not young!” she protested.

“Oh?” he arched his eyebrows again. If not, you certainly act like it. Not that he was complaining. Cheerfulness, joy, wonder…those were precious gifts indeed, and he would be the last person to scorn them. Not after so long without them. Not since raising the twins. “Do you remember the years before the Sun and Moon?” he prodded.

She scowled. “Yes! I was born years before Tilion rose!”

So actually, reasonably old. And wasn’t that interesting, that she referred to the Moon as Tilion?

His suspicion grew. “Who is your mother? And your father? You know mine, after all.”

A slightly misleading ploy, considering that everyone knew who his mother and father were. But nonetheless, he didn’t feel all that guilty about it. Considering all the sins he’d committed, this could barely register on any scale.

She shrugged. “My mother is right there,” she said, jerking her thumb back at the river. “Although this is not the seat of her power. She is at her weakest here.”

He blinked. Both at the new information, and the trust was the foundation of telling him that. “Your mother is the Baranduin.”

She nodded. “She is of the waters. My father is a Child, though. Firstborn. His name is Nurwë.”

An Elf, and one with a name that had a vaguely familiar feel to it. That made her Neniellë Nurweniel. Assuming that her father’s culture took patrilineal customs. But then, judging by the way she had named her mother first, perhaps not.

“So why do you come to the sea?” he asked. His hand was still extended for the rabbits. He was good at waiting out indignant youngsters. He’d had a lot of practice, after all, and he’d learned from Nelyo, who had been a master of the art.

She smiled again, finally handing the rabbits over. “I am visiting my kin of the sea. Why are you here?”

Maglor shrugged. “I’ve been wandering this shore for quite some time now.” To be precise, over a century. Since Elros’ death, when Elrond had somehow, unbelievably, found him. After those few weeks, he’d headed far, far south from the centres of Lindon. “Who are your kin?” She was quite a long way from Mithlond, but then with a colouring like that – assuming she took after her father in looks, rather than her mother – he doubted that she counted her kin amongst the Falathrim, who tended to be pale from the millennia under the stars, and dark-haired. If anything, she looked more like a Vanya. 

She smiled at him. “Ossë and Uinen. Would you like to come with me?”

Ah. “I believe that would be unwise,” he said. “The last time I spoke to a Maia, it–”

Maedhros’ desperate, determined, tired eyes, as they bored into his. “We have to do this, Lauro. We have to–”

The quenching of Tree-light in the eyes of the guards they slew, Eru, it still hurt, centuries on–

The horror in Eonwë’s face as he sentenced them to mercy more damning than death itself–

Her hand took his and squeezed. An incredibly reckless thing to do while he was trapped in memory, he would have said. And yet, the press of memories abated. Just a little.

“It was not a happy occasion,” he said simply.

She nodded. “I know.”

He frowned. “If your mother is the Baranduin, there is no way you witnessed the destruction of Beleriand.”

She shook her head, relinquishing her grip on his hand. He fought down the longing for more of the contact. “My mother is the Song. She knows – when something shakes the world, she knows. And the winds speak to her, often as not, as they do to me. Word passes on Manwë’s breezes. So I know some of your tale.”

He snorted, as he knelt to kindle the fire. The flames sparked to life easily, as they always had for the Fëanorioni. “So it seems. And yet, I know so little of yours. Why are you far from home, river-daughter?”

“I’m visiting my kin. I told you.” Her eyes were steady on his, as he began skinning the rabbits.

“You have not told me the reason for your visit,” he said, the urge to smile tugging at his lips. Valar, it had been a long time. And ingrained habit was already whispering to go back to the beach, let the enchanting woman continue her merry way.

However, it was the selfish part of him – the part that had raised Elrond and Elros as his own and treasured each smile and laugh and tear-drop as if they’d come from the sons of his own blood – that was in charge at the moment. So, he finished skinning the first rabbit, and cast around for a suitable stick by the fire.

Her smile was unrestrained. “If you come with me, you will surely find out the reason.”

He snorted. “A tempting bargain. And yet, I still do not find it enticement enough to go near my death.” He very much doubted that any Maia liked the thought of him still alive.

“You said you’d been wandering the shore,” Neniellë pointed out, as he threaded the rabbit on the stick he'd found. “If Ossë wanted you dead, you’d be dead by now.”

…that had not occurred to him. And if Finrod were here, his golden cousin would be paralysed with laughter.

He sighed. “Where do we go, then?”

Neniellë smiled. “We can go to your cove tomorrow.”

 

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Chapter End Notes

I headcanon the Vanyar as being blonde, but with darker skin from living so far to the light of the trees; meanwhile, Neniel's the daughter of the Baranduin, which literally means the Brown River. I like to think of it as convergent evolution, Middle-Earth style. =D 

By the Shore

Maglor returns to the beach, along with Goldberry.

Read By the Shore

The dawn woke Maglor from the paths of reverie to tears slipping down his cheeks. It had been another memory from Tirion that he had walked in. Teaching little Carnistir to sing, and listening to the way his tiny little brother would stumble over the syllables of the lullaby, his face turning a bright shade of pink from concentration. The tears and the tantrums that had followed, until Maitimo had come into the room to console Carnistir, with all the hard-won skill of having soothed a baby cousin and two little brothers through innumerable temper tantrums already. Maglor gave himself another moment to linger in the memory – in Maitimo’s chuckle as he brushed Carnistir’s hair out of his face and kissed the tip of his nose, in the feeling of his arm thrown around Makalaurë’s shoulder.

And then Maglor rose from his bed roll and walked to the estuary bank, to splash his face with the cool salt water.

“What’s wrong?”

Ah. His impromptu guest, who was reclining in one of the willows that formed a grove on this bank. If it had been an uncomfortable night for her, she certainly showed no sign of it.

“Nothing is wrong,” he lied smoothly, splashing the water on his face, and then standing to turn and face her. Everything was wrong in his world, but if she hadn’t worked that out yet, he was not going to hasten the discovery. “And haven’t your parents told you it’s rude to poke into other people’s minds without permission?” An obvious deflection, but really, he could think of a few people who would have taken very quick offence at it. Although whether they’d be able to hold a grudge against her for it was another matter. It might work out like holding a grudge against the twins – very feasible, in theory, until they’d turn enormous green pleading eyes on the offended party. Not to mention that considering how subtly it was done, it would probably take them a while to work out that it was osanwë. He hadn't figured it out until moon-rise last night. 

Neniellë sat up in the willow, turning to face him, her blonde brows curving into a frown. “It is?”

Maglor nodded, pushing away memories of Arafinwë having a similar conversation with Findaráto. Back when Findaráto was a laughing, toddling golden whirlwind who, when picked up by his older cousin, tugged on his hair, only to abruptly let go before Makalaurë could even voice his yelp of pain and press apologetic lips to Makalaurë's shoulder. 

“Yes, it is,” Maglor said.

She bit her lip. “But then how…” she asked, the words still brushing against his mind. 

“You’ll just have to speak in Sindarin like the rest of us,” he said.

“Can’t,” she said, after a moment of clearly reaching for the word.

Maglor sighed. “You’ll have to learn,” he said, without much sympathy in his voice.

It wasn’t particularly fair of him, he knew. He could easily recall how hard he’d found it to adjust to Beleriand. But still, there were always consequences for leaving one’s home, and having to learn a new language was getting off lightly.

She nodded, her mind apparently made up, and pointed to the water, with a raised eyebrow.

“Ah, that one you know already. Nen,” he told her. The bronze finger switched to the remainders of the campfire. Maglor poked at the coals and said, “Naur.” To the willows. “Taur.”

This, he foresaw, was going to be a long morning.

And so it proved. What Neniel lacked in terms of books, grammar or better candidate for a tutor, she seemed determined to compensate for in sheer tenacity, as they walked to his stretch of beach. Thankfully, the closer they got to the waters, the fewer objects there were for an vocabulary lesson.

After less than an hour’s brisk walk, they stood upon the shore of his little cove, and Neniel grinned at him, setting her bow and arrows down and unstringing it.

He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think that’s wise.”

Neniellë frowned at him, and he sighed, picking up the bow and the string and holding them out for her. She frowned again, and shook her head. Part of him was tempted to dismiss it as foolishness on her part, and string the bow anyway. But then – the girl was no ordinary elleth. Given the skill she’d displayed yesterday, if any Orcs came near-by, she could probably just drown them.

So, very reluctantly, Maglor set the bow and the string down, taking the opportunity to study them further. Crafting weaponry had never been his specialty, but he hadn’t held the Gap for so long by being ignorant of them, either. It was a different design than the standard longbow used by Sindar and Noldor, he realised. The ends dipped and curved more dramatically than a longbow would unstrung.

Her father is an Elf, and she carries a bow, but she cannot speak Sindarin. Is she half Avar?

That would explain a lot…

He glanced up, and flushed red, heat spreading across his face to the tips of his ears. He turned his back again, the sight of her yanking her jerkin off imprinted into his brain.

Think of something else. Anything else.

…Well, perhaps not quite anything else, he didn’t feel like ruminating on Dagor Bragollach today. He hunted and scoured for a suitable memory, until at last he found it: the time a young Makalaurë in Aman had seen maggots for the first time.

…Eru Ilúvatar, she was tugging on his hand.

“No. No,” he snapped, closing his eyes, yanking his hand from hers. It did no good. He could still feel her presence burning at his right. She felt like all the power of rushing rivers and still waters wrapped in a single fëa at his side.

“Why?” That one word was spoken in Sindarin. Although he couldn’t recall teaching it to her that morning.

“I do not go swimming with ellith!”

“Ellith?”

He gestured vaguely towards her, keeping his eyes firmly closed. “Ellon,” he said, jerking his thumb at his chest. “Elleth,” he said, pointing to where he could just barely hear her feet shifting in the sands. “Ellith swim with other ellith.” He could practically feel her puzzlement deepening, so he sighed and sat down on the sand, making a shooing gesture. “Go. Go and swim.”

Her presence slowly retreated from his senses, and he exhaled, letting the memory of a song fill him and concentrating on that, letting it fill every corner and crack of his mind.

Until, some time later, Neniellë cried something in another language – he could only presume that it was her mother tongue – and the meaning of it was clear, even if Maglor only recognised one word. The tone was of any cheerful woman greeting a dearly-loved kinsman. And the one word that Maglor recognised was Ossë.

…So. His choices had become either not keeping a wary eye on the Maia who had just entered the beach, or to do something that would have made Makalaurë expire of embarrassment once upon a time.

Sorry, Amil, he thought ruefully, as he opened his eyes.

The Sea Maia was laughing, taking the form of an Elf as well, although he was clothed in robes of sea-weed as he picked Neniellë up in a hug, chattering back in the same language. His eyes roamed over the beach, and they met Maglor’s briefly. Maglor froze. Ossë continued to smile, setting the girl down.

“Suilad, Maglor Fëanorion!” And then he continued to talk to the girl in the other language, before she nodded and swam deeper into the water.

Ossë walked up the beach, and Maglor closed his eyes, trying to calm his suddenly racing heart, the instinct of centuries of combat rising. He’s a Maia. There’s no way I can possibly fight him. 

The memory of Neniel’s wry voice last night. If Ossë wanted you dead by now, you’d be dead. 

Was she right?

“I admit, I’m surprised to see you in my niece’s company,” Ossë said. “How did that occur?”

Maglor raised an eyebrow. Of all the ways I had to die, I had not thought it would be because of an irate uncle.

Although, honestly, considering the number of Elves he’d slain, the possible scenario should have entered his mind sooner. Regardless, there was no point lying. Especially when, out of all the things he’d done, this one was...actually quite innocent.

“I was singing. She found me, and asked me to play for her. Before I knew it, she was setting up camp.” Not precisely how it had gone, but he wasn’t quite sure that expressing the fact that Ossë’s proclaimed niece was very charming was a good idea right now.

Ah, Nelyo, if you could see me now.

The thought felt like the stab of a dagger to his gut.

Ossë smiled. “She can be a little…” the Maia seemed to search for the right word.

“Inexorable?” Maglor offered, out of long habit. It had always been his role, as resident bard and poet, to find the right one for a given situation.

Ossë’s smile turned wry. “That will serve. Still, I’m very glad to see you.”

Maglor raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware that I’d been far from your sight.” Again, hovering in an awkward liminal space between truth and un. Technically, of course, he hadn’t been far from Ossë’s sight at all, wandering the coastline for a good century or so, and singing laments most of the time when he wasn’t fishing. At the same time, he certainly hadn’t dwelled on the fact, or even really taken it into account.

That wry smile somehow turned wryer. “I will rephrase. I am very glad to have a chance to speak to you, now that I think you might not run away.”

“I hardly think that my running away would help evade you,” Maglor pointed out.

“But it would not be a promising sign that you would listen to me either,” Ossë said. “Which is what I have been hoping for. It’s a good thing you’re not an adan, you know.”

The grief for Elros twisted in his stomach.

Maglor ignored it. Later. For now, there was information to be teased through.

“You want me to listen to you,” he said slowly.

Ossë nodded. “You’ve been walking these shores for centuries, singing your regrets, your sorrows. We have listened.” He paused. “You are not the only soul who walks Ennor who has done things that were evil. Things that could never be undone.”

Maglor’s eyes went wide. He could remember the voice of the Doomsman now.

“Little pity, you would find,’ he said,” Maglor whispered. So where are you going with this?

Ossë smiled. “I am not sure that pity and understanding are the same thing. In any case, I am not here to pity you. I’m here to challenge you.”

…What?

Ossë laughed, his eyes bright and shining, and somehow as hard as rocks that the tide broke on. “You’ve done things you can never take back. Committed so much evil that you can never offset it. And yet, you stay, singing of your regrets.” Ossë paused. “When you could do something.”

“You just said I can never offset it,” Maglor said, frowning at what seemed truly inconsistent logic.

Ossë nodded. “I did. You cannot balance the scales. Even if you laboured until Dagor Dagorath, it would not undo your actions. Even if I laboured until Dagor Dagorath, it would not change the fact that once, I rebelled.”

Maglor swallowed. He hadn’t considered the songs about Ossë’s rebellion since he was a child, and yet– and yet. Was the Maia trying to assure him, as only one who had been through the abyss could, that there was hope?

“It depends on what you mean by ‘hope’,” Ossë said, his voice suddenly soft again. “If by ‘hope’, you mean, wake up and see that all the tragedy was a dream – then no. There is not hope. But if by ‘hope’, you mean, could something beautiful still come from this – then yes. Yes, there is.”

The words tumbled from his mouth before he could consider the wisdom of them. “I’ve never heard anyone call the Noldolantë ugly before.” The story it told, yes. The lay itself, no. 

Ossë smirked. “And you have never beheld or heard anything more lovely than music, child?”

Before his unwilling eyes, his memories replayed.

Maitimo’s smile, proud and warm, when Makalaurë played to be admitted to a Lindar school of music in Alqualondë. Nerdanel’s hair tickling his neck as she flung her arms around him, and he realised that he was finally taller than his Amil. Tyelkormo’s laugh. The peace on Carnistir’s face as his fingers flew over the loom, working the shuttle. Curufinwë’s delight when Makalaurë picked him up on visits home. The Ambarussa, so tiny and so small, balanced in his arms, both blinking up at him in wonder.

(Atto singing a lullaby in his warm baritone, a memory buried so deep in him it was almost part of his bones.)

“One or two things,” he admitted.

Ossë laughed, head thrown back in delight, and blue-green eyes dancing. “Ah, you sound just like your grandfather. And your father, for that matter.”

Maglor’s eyebrow rose. “I did not know that you were friends, my father and you.”

Ossë shrugged. “In the latter days, no. Yet, in early days, when he first came to Alqualondë, he would talk to me about the sea structures sometimes.”

“Of course he would,” Maglor sighed. “You think I can begin to – make amends?”

“No. But I don’t think it’s too late to change the kind of song that you sing, either,” Ossë said. “It will never erase the tragedy, no. And yet – my Father has a way of bringing beauty from ruin. Do you not remember?”

The power that was Ossë’s spirit reached out and brushed against his mind, knocking on Maglor’s walls as a visitor does on a door, with a memory offered almost as a gift. Elros and Elrond, turning identical laughing grey gazes on him and Maedhros, as they teased them about being so strangely Elvish at times. Maglor had been hard pressed to turn the tables and tease that they were the strange ones through his chuckles.

“I remember,” Maglor whispered.

“It did not erase the tragedy. And yet, there in the midst of it, love bloomed. Life blossomed. There was beauty, against the shadow of your days.” Ossë picked up a sea shell, and tossed it to him. Maglor caught it in his left hand. He was often more adept with that one now, these days. “Could it not be so again?”

“The Doom of Mandos still lies on me.”

Ossë raised an eyebrow. “Does it?”

Maglor felt his world tilt around him. “What?” 

“Oh.” Ossë looked a little concerned. “She didn’t tell you – no, no, of course she didn’t.”

“Ossë.” Lord Ossë would have been the much wiser way to address him, but Maglor was frankly too tense for that right now. “What is going on?”

 

---

Chapter End Notes

On Goldberry’s apparent naïveté, I imagine that her Avarin culture has much less of a nudity taboo than Noldorin – clothing is much more about warmth and protection of skin than it is about modesty – and that Noldorin taboos are still pretty firmly ingrained in Maglor, even after everything. Sometimes, little things are hard to shake. On the other hand, Maglor hasn’t survived First Age Beleriand by holding customs above pragmatism, either.

If the names seem inconsistent at points, it’s because I’m trying to draw a clear division in how Maglor thinks of his life in a very clear divide of Before Beleriand (Maitimo, Makalaurë, Tyelkormo, Carnistir, etc) and after. Findaráto is Finrod, and Arafinwë is Finarfin.

Adan: mortal Man.

Conversations with Maiar

Neniel is comforted, and Maglor is challenged.

Read Conversations with Maiar

Neniellë swam further into the bay, diving beneath the waves and studying the way the kelp danced in the currents. A romp of sea otters swam over towards her, and she smiled at them, shaking her head. 

Sorry, little ones. Not today.

The otters weren't terribly happy about it, but they swam away, and she returned to her study of the kelp, waiting patiently. 

She was not disappointed. 

Streamlet! 

The voice was joyful and deep, a low rumbling contralto, that called to mind the unfathomable depths of the sea-bed and the chasms beneath. 

Neniellë smiled, turning to face Uinen, and swam into her open arms. Uinen’s hair floated behind her, beginning as a cloud that stretched to her waist before it became indivisible from the water around them. Her body was bare, and below her waist, it became as a sleek seal’s tail.     

Uinen! she replied, sinking into the hug. 

Uinen laughed, a sound like the roar of a thousand sea-shells, and continued to hold her. What brings you to my halls? It's been a long time!

Neniellë swallowed around the lump in her throat at the truthful answer to the question, the reason that she had to come. She hadn’t thought it would actually hurt this much to discuss. But it did.

Uinen gazed at her, concern in her sea-eyes, and Neniellë sighed as she opened her mind to her kinswoman. There was no point delaying or dawdling. 

Her mother had been trying to teach her another song, one that was to freeze the water in a reed. Always it somewhat frustrated her mother, who, being an Ainu, found the concept of learning knowledge rather than being born with it quite strange to begin with. And there had been just another exasperated comment, her mother's temper surging to the fore, snapping the last of her patience, and she couldn’t take itanymore. 

She had left minutes later, running from the woods where they rested, pausing only to string her bow and sling it and her quiver onto her back. She hadn’t even thought to bring flint and steel, which was why she had had to ask Maglor to do it when she stopped running last night.

The concern deepened in Uinen’s gaze. You have eaten, though, have you not? You are Eruhína. You have to eat.

Neniellë resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the maternal shape of the inquiry. Yes, I ate, she replied, showing her the memory of Maglor roasting the rabbits over the fire last night. 

Uinen’s smile was wry. That Elf. Still, there could be worse people for you to meet.

He is strange, though, Neniellë replied. 

Indeed he is! You’ll have to be more specific. 

Neniellë set the next memory before her. Maglor closing his eyes and refusing to go into the surf with her. 

I do not understand why he would not come. Is he afraid of the waves? I tried telling him that if Ossë wanted him dead, he’d be dead already.

Uinen threw back her head and laughed, the tides surging a little higher in response. 

No, little one, that is not why, Uinen said. Such is the way of his people, that males and females do not swim unclothed together. Clothed, sometimes, perhaps. But certainly not unclothed. Nor do females go unclothed before males, unless they be mated. Or perhaps unless one is a healer, and the other one being healed of some great injury. Not even if they are close kin would they do such a thing. 

Neniellë’s eyes widened. But why would you swim clothed? They would just have to get the wet clothes off later and dry them. It’s not at all efficient.

Uinen shook her head, rolling her eyes. A question I have long asked the Eldar. They smile mysteriously and say next to naught, oft some platitude about it being an Elven matter. 

Uinen squeezed her hands. But why do you come here? It is not the first time you have made a mistake in a song. Why have you left your mother now? 

Neniellë blew out more bubbles as she tried to sort through the tangle of emotions, like a tangle of coral that interlaced until it was almost impossible to tell where one branch ended and another began, until a massive, interlaced reef grew. 

I am afraid, she said at last. I am afraid.

A wave of warmth and tenderness from Uinen. Of what?

Neniellë swallowed. That I am not enough. Not enough to live up to her. That, no matter what I do, I will never be able to make her proud. It seems like no matter what I do–

A wave of anger from Uinen, and Neniellë swam back a few feet, watching her warily. The Lady of the Deep would not intentionally harm her, she was sure of that, but nonetheless…

Do not give even a moment’s credence to such foolishness, Uinen said, green-grey eyes furious again, like a choppy surf. I was there. The day you were conceived, your mother wept and laughed for joy, so loud and strong that the echoes carried all the way across to Aman. Your mother delighted in you, for you brought her joy beyond measure.

Neniellë blinked back tears as she put words to the doubts that had been nagging at her for the past day. But do I still bring her joy? When I can not even get a simple song right? I can carry Ataro's legacy, I've done it for long enough. But Mam's?

Uinen chuckled. Of course. She is impatient with you, for she knows just how capable you are. Look at the Númenorions. They start young, when they learn to sail the waters and fish from my realm. Very young. And the sheer number of misplaced hooks and capsized boats! Every child does it at least once, and many do three or four times, before they learn. She pressed a kiss to Neniel’s forehead. And yet, even when their parents scold them and yell, their spirits shine with pride. So does your mother think of you. She is proud of you, streamlet. 

Neniellë froze.

Really? she asked. Even in the confines of osanwë, her voice felt very small all of a sudden.

Uinen laughed. Sure as the tide, little one. Her voice was very firm. 

Neniellë’s tears broke free, and Uinen held her as she wept the storm out.

---

“It began when you started wandering the coasts,” Ossë explained. Maglor drummed his nails into a rapid rhythm against his knee, listening intently. “Uinen was – well, not happy with you, after everything. Nor was Ulmo, particularly, even after you gave him the Silmaril.”

“Understandable,” Maglor said dryly, the rhythm he drummed quickening even at the mention of the jewel. It had only been forty years since he’d returned to the original cove he’d thrown it into, and plunged into the waves to find it as the Oath reared its ugly head again. He remembered his adversary too well to relax now. 

“Yes. And yet, intentions matter too, as well as actions. You set out to defy the Darkness, and avenge your kin. To use your word, understandable. Yes, you were warned and proceeded anyway. You spilled the blood of your kin, four times. But over four hundred years, you held the Gap and fought the Darkness. No small task, that. And you continued to defy the evil, both outside yourself and in yourself, as much as you could. You lost the battle. But when you sang the Noldolantë, she heard it. The regrets. The remorse. You hated what you did. And Uinen and Ulmo saw that, eventually. So, Ulmo gave you into Uinen’s keeping.” 

Maglor raised his eyebrows. “Not yours?” 

Ossë’s grin, he decided after a moment, was probably the reason that the word ‘fey’ had been created, in the early world under the stars. He looked like gut-wrenchingly like a young Tyelko, when he was about to pull a particularly daring and stupid stunt. “Me? You must be mad. After all, everyone knows that I am restless Ossë of the waves, not the merciful Lady of the Deep.” 

“You are not the first to tell me that I am mad,” Maglor said, swallowing down the memories to focus on the issue at hand. “So. Uinen’s keeping, not Námo’s. I seem to recall something of the ones who didn’t die becoming a shadow of regret, though.” 

“Which will be harder than you think, with my niece having come across you,” Ossë said, a white eyebrow arching in amusement. “If one part of the Doom should prove fluid, I do not see why the rest will not in time. Which, you’ll notice, is why I asked if the Doom laid on you still, rather than make a statement.” He shrugged. 

Maglor bit back the first remark that came to mind. Now was absolutely not the right time to push his luck. 

“I thought your wife was the compassionate one,” he said, instead. “The songs do you an injustice.” 

Not that it erased the fact that Ossë was incredibly dangerous, of course. Still, it was kindness from the mercurial Maia, and it wouldn’t hurt to acknowledge it. 

…Ossë’s face turning a vivid dark pink that would have done Caranthir proud had not been in the list of expected responses.

Now, what might that mean? If he wasn’t an Ainu, and really was an Elf, Maglor would suspect that he was blushing. Yet–

“Uinen is not my wife.” 

Maglor’s eyebrows shot up, greatly startled. The Ainur blush. Wonders never cease.

“Are all the songs wrong?” It was the one thing that was consistent in every single song, whether Ossë was playful or fearsome in the lyrics, that Ossë loved Uinen, and that she could calm his temper. 

Ossë bared his teeth. “In that respect, yes. I am sure she does not – we have never spoken of–”

Maglor felt like he was back in Tirion, watching Curufinwë protest that he most certainly did not like Maglor’s friend, Lindonís. Curufinwë had been equally unconvincing, and almost as incomprehensible in his denials. He resisted the urge to rub his forehead, as he had then. It wouldn’t help. 

“Have you considered telling her?” he asked. 

Ossë’s white eyebrows rose, and, miracle of miracles, he managed a complete sentence. “I can’t say I find it an appealing thought.” Pause. “I’m certain she’d reject me.” Two complete sentences. A triumph. 

“You’ve spent the past ten minutes encouraging me to think that the Doom of the Noldor, spoken by Mandos himself, is fluid,” Maglor pointed out, wondering if it was just Ossë and, according to the stories, the Moon Maia, or if all male Maiar tended to be hopeless when lovesick. “I really don’t think you should turn fatalistic now. Besides, I’m sure she knows. If nothing else, she must have heard all the songs by now.” 

Ossë threw up his hands in exasperation. They were webbed, Maglor realised, with a start. The one thing that marked him as distinctly not the Teler whose guise he otherwise mimicked. “I am receiving romantic advice from a son of Fëanáro. I knew it would be a strange day this morning, but I did not think it would be this strange.” 

“Believe me, I find it stranger still,” Maglor said. 

“The songs probably don’t reach the Deep,” Ossë said. 

“Still. She’s bound to notice eventually. The songs say a lot of things about you, but prone to deception isn’t among them.”

Ossë’s smile was wry. “Perhaps.” He did not appear inclined to contest the point, and they were both silent for a minute, before Ossë stood. “In any case, I’ll take my leave of you for now, Maglor. Stay here, for my niece will return shortly.” 

Maglor frowned. “I said that I would come with her here. I did not say that I would stay.” 

Ossë gave him another exasperated look, and walked into the waves. “Do as you will, but I do not counsel attempting to leave. She will simply follow you.” 

…Well, that was out of the question then. He couldn’t have Neniellë following him around, not even in a painfully literally sense, lest the hope that the Doom was fluid be void.

Maglor let out a long sigh, and got to his feet. He could at least start finding the wood for a fire. If Neniellë was to return, there was no reason that she should not return to a camp-site. 

He’d built a suitable fire and was singing the opening notes for Tyelkormo’s lament when Neniel walked out of the waves. He closed his eyes, letting the images of his little brother as he had been flash across his mind. The silver hair, the wild, fierce smile, the skilled broad hands nocking and releasing arrow after arrow into targets at archery practise.

A hand squeezed his good one. Cautiously, he cracked open an eye. 

Neniellë was clothed again, sitting beside him, her gold hair plastered to her brown vest. Her eyes were rimmed with red. Hopefully, from the sea salt. 

“Are you well?” he asked her. 

She frowned, and he sighed.

“You,” he said, pointing at her, and then pantomimed tears tracing down his face. “Crying?” 

She repeated the gesture. “Cry-ing?” 

He nodded. “Yes, you! Crying? Why?” 

She threw up her hands in frustration. Not because she didn’t understand the question, he realised, but simply because she lacked the vocabulary to express the answer. 

Well. It appeared he’d have to revoke that prohibition on osanwë, if they were to have any hope of clear communication. There’d have to be boundaries, of course.

He reached out in thought to her. He was nowhere near as mighty as any of Finarfin's house in the mental arts, particularly Finrod or Galadriel, but Fëanáro had not settled for his sons being less than at least competent in anything – well, at least in the early years. 

Why are you crying? he asked again, setting his twinge of concern over the image of reddened eyes like Curvo might set a pane of glass over a valued painting. He offered the thought gingerly and carefully. 

Hesitation, from her. Well, who could blame her? No sane woman bared her concerns to a Kinslayer. 

He felt a wave of exasperation from her. That’s not why!

Why, then?

A feeling of oddly childlike shyness from her, that he’d last sensed from Tyelpë in Aman, when he would poke his head into a room to sure that he really was allowed in before actually entering to show his latest work. Shyness, and self-consciousness, and an utter horror that the other person might laugh at him, might deem the thing he held in his hands inconsequential.  

The corner of Maglor’s mouth was tugged into a smile. What is it? he asked gently. 

My mother's proud of me, she said.

Maglor felt a lump rise in his throat, even as his smile vanished. No, that was certainly not inconsequential. 

Well, of course she is, he said. 

Neniellë shook her head fiercely. You don’t understand. Part of me always – always wondered. 

Maglor met her eyes. I understand perfectly, he said, letting her catch a glimpse of how much he had desired his father’s approval and affection, before slamming the old wound behind a wall. 

Her eyes had sobered now, and she nodded, apparently satisfied. You do. Her teeth sank into her bottom lip. And yet – I do not want to go home. Not to stay, not yet. Though I should at least visit and tell them that I am leaving. 

Maglor raised his eyebrows. Where would you go? 

She frowned. Where could I go?

Perhaps that was the wrong question to ask. What do you want to do?

She pursed her lips, and then, a few moments later, smiled. She showed him the memory of noticing that his hand was in pain, and the determination that had filled her as she reached for wholeness, for healing. 

That, she said. I want to do that. 

You want to learn to heal? Then you should seek out Elrond, Gil-Galad’s herald, Maglor replied. He is a very skilled healer.

She smiled. He is your friend?

He couldn’t stop the thought in time. Son whom I never sired slipped out between two crystal clear memories of small hands in his, and of the trust in bright grey eyes as he showed the boys how to sing.

Neniellë’s smile warmed to an impossibly bright degree. I'd like to meet him! When will we go?

You may go whenever you please, Maglor returned dryly. I will take my ill-fortune nowhere near Elrond.

Neniellë’s brow crinkled, but she shrugged. Well, I’ll need to learn more Thindarin before I can do that. Can I stay with you for a while? 

Maglor snorted. Who am I to say what the water daughter will do? I have it on good authority that you’ll follow me if I try and leave.

Only if you left without saying anything, Neniellë said. Or if I had a question. 

Maglor sighed. Precisely.

Neniellë smiled, and stood up. I’ll go hunting. I’ll be back in a few hours. 

Maglor stood too, and she frowned, tilting her head to the side in curiosity. He rolled his eyes. 

I might not have a bow, but I can at least forage for mussels, he replied with some asperity. 

Neniellë chuckled, and the sound was entrancing. As you please. 

A thought occurred to him, and he turned back. If you talk to anyone else, you should say it ‘Sindarin’, not ‘Thindarin.’ And you might want to get used to a Thindarin version of your name. Neniel, rather than Neniellë. 

Her brows furrowed again. Why? Not the name, I understand that. Although it will take getting used to. But why must it be pronounced 'Sindarin'?

Maglor sighed. Well, it started with my Grandmother, my first grandmother, Míriel Therindë – Serindë, to you, mind…

 

---

Chapter End Notes

Mam: Mother, Gnomish.

Suilad: Greetings! 

Eruhína: Quenya, 'sons of Eru.' 

Númenorions: sons of Númenor.

Osanwë: mind-speech. 

Tyelko, Tyelkormo: Celegorm

Fëanáro: Quenya, Fëanor. 

Curvo: Curufinwë Atarinkë, aka Curufin. 

Lauro: Makalaurë. Originally I was going to keep it Laurë, but then I thought it was a bit weird, considering that seemingly every Quenya nickname for every boy ends in 'o.' Well, with the exception of Ambarussa's shared nickname, but that doesn't count. 

Alassë: Caranthir's daughter, who is probably not canonical. But who cares? 

Ainur: Holy Ones, a term encompassing both the Maiar (lesser powers) and the Valar (greater Powers.) 

The 'Thindarin' is a reference to the Shibboleth of Fëanor. Aka, the one where Fëanor single-handedly turns a difference of pronunciation into a political dispute. FËANOR WHY.

Mirror and Meeting

In which Maglor is introduced to Goldberry's parents.

Read Mirror and Meeting

I’m not going back with you, he said. You couldn’t say things flatly in osanwë, not really, but you could certainly convey thinning patience, which was really all that was required at the moment. 

Neniel had one hand on her hip, and she was staring at him, blonde brows furled into a pretty frown. Her hair had begun to develop rather fearsome tangles, after a day without combing or brushing, and he frowned. His hair couldn't have gotten that bad, even though he didn't really remember the last time he'd tended to it. Could it? 

“I need go back,” she said, in Sindarin. 

“Need to go back,” he corrected. 

She nodded, brow flickering in frustration as she accepted the correction. “Need to go back. It–”

She searched for the right word, and rolled her eyes, her mind brushing against his. 

It was not right for me to leave like that. It was like a tantrum. It was childish. An image, accompanying the words, of a child who looked quite like her – the same eyes, but the hair was black and straight, although the child had the same hooked nose – shouting as she gripped a tool of some kind, and threw it across a building. A relative? Surely not a daughter. He would have felt a marriage bond, as often as they’d been using osanwë. 

“Immature,” he said in Sindarin. “When you act like a child, not like one grown.” 

She nodded. “Yes.” It was not right for me to just run away. I need to go back, apologise. 

Are you still planning on leaving again? he asked. 

Yes.

Then why are you returning to apologise, when you’re about to leave again? he asked, frowning. There had to be some piece of the puzzle he wasn’t getting. She was neither stupid nor a child. 

I am not apologising for leaving, she said. 

He rolled his eyes, trusting his confusion to make itself apparent. From the sigh she gave, it evidently was. 

She persisted. It is not wrong to leave. There are others who can take up my duties, like my sister. But to just run away like I did, that iswrong.

“Oh,” he said, intelligently. When she put it like that, it was, indeed, perfectly clear. 

She snorted, and gave a single nod, apparently satisfied that she’d made her point. “So now I need to go back.”

And my Ataro would worry less if he actually got to meet you.

He raised his eyebrows. When their minds were this close together, it was difficult to tell what she was and was not intending to tell him. With another Exile, they would have had similar sets of mental shields and defences, but Neniel seemed to lack those entirely. Instead, her mind was wide open, but full of crannies which echoed with the rustling of leaves and running water, echoes of the Song. 

He decided to assume that it was an intentional disclosure.  Even assuming that your father doesn’t decide the world is better off without me–

He won’t, you’re Finwë’s grandson.

His patience had been wearing thinner, and thinner. He closed his eyes for a second, striving for the endless numbness that he’d felt prior to Neniel showing up three days before, that she’d begun to dismantle by existing in the same space as him. 

I am also a liar, a thief, and a murderer. He rather thought that should outweigh any concerns about who his Grandfather had been. 

Did you want to do it? she asked him. Her spirit rippled with hesitation, and a warm concern that was aimed at him of all people. 

Which part? 

All of it. Alqualondë. Doriath. The guards. 

He could see the bodies in the streets already, and taste the ashes of the burning Havens on his tongue. She hadn't even mentioned Sirion. 

No, he admitted. I didn’t want to. We were Oathbound to the everlasting darkness, and terrified. But I still chose to do it. 

She frowned. What Oath?

…Suddenly, her lack of fear approaching him made much less sense, if she knew about all of the crimes that he had committed, and none of the reasons why he had done so. Indeed, it looked like insanely, stupidly reckless decision. 

He cast his mind back to that awful day in the darkness in the square of Tirion, as his father had sworn the dreadful words. 

Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean, 

Brood of Morgoth or bright Vala,

Elda, Maia or Aftercomer, 

Man yet unborn upon Middle-Earth,

neither law, nor love, nor league of swords, 

dread nor danger nor Doom itself, 

shall defend him from Fëanáro and Fëanáro’s kin…

Curufinwë’s voice had shaken. So had Maitimo’s. Not from fear of the words themselves – how things might have gone differently, if they’d had the common sense to fear the words that even in memory were saturated with power – but from the terror of the darkness. The horrifying sense of betrayed by the Valar who’d called them friends all their lives. The rage and impotence and wretched grief of seeing the butchery left of Finwë’s corpse in Formenos. The long ride through the dark towards Tirion, when there had never been darkness before. 

Pretty hazel eyes were very wide now. That’s awful. 

He nodded. Yes.

Does it still bind you? The Oath? 

He nodded. Why do you think I can’t die yet? If I die with the Oath unfulfilled, then my Atar and brothers go to the Everlasting Darkness. 

Hmm. But it only binds you to deal out woe to those holding a Silmaril. And you know my people have none. 

He winced as the Oath stirred against his spirit, like a rope biting into his skin, awakened by dwelling on it and the discussion of the Silmarils. 

Please don’t bring them up by name. Not even in osanwë. 

She nodded, and the next thought came with a feeling of remorse, of an apology. My kin is not bound to the Oath. 

But I am still bound to the Doom of the Noldor. No, Neniel, face it, he said, feeling more tired than he had any right to be. It was only a few hours after dawn, and the two mackerels that they had caught from the waves was already cooking in the pot over the fire. I’m not going anywhere near your people. I’m terrible company, and the sheer amount of rage the Valar still have for me and my House makes it a bad idea for you to even think of dragging me home.

She sighed. You said you’d teach me Sindarin, though. That’s going to take time, and my parents will want to know at least who you are.

They will raise all the very good reasons that you should find a better teacher.

Stop it, she protested, glowering fiercely at him. I like you. You’re kind, and you sing well. Even if I didn’t like you, I’d still want to keep an eye on you. 

He raised his eyebrows. The Atani have a saying about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer. Is that what you mean by that?

Her face was more serious than he’d seen it. You aren’t my enemy. But you are very dangerous. Just like me. She reached for the fish, and pointed at it, raising an eyebrow. 

“Lim,” he supplied. “Or hâl, maybe.” 

She nodded, repeating the words, and began humming. The steam rising from the pot started to scatter and vanish, and the water’s bubbling calmed, as she leaned over to take the fish from the pot. As she did, her face brightened. 

“What are you thinking?” he asked her.

She frowned. He repeated it, slower, showing her an image of him and Findekáno at lessons in their youth, tongues protruding in concentration as they formed tengwar, to explain the unfamiliar word. Thinking.

She nodded. 

I have an idea, she said. 

He said it in Sindarin. 

She repeated herself. “I have an idea,” she said, getting to her feet and gesturing him to do the same. He stood, and she walked around to stand beside him, on his side of the fire. She pinched the second fish from the pot, and waved her free hand over the water, before she began to sing again, her eyes closing in concentration. The water’s surface cleared of the froth and fish, and there was a face looking up at them from the water.

A woman, looking for all the world like Neniel’s double – the same heart-shaped face, hooked nose, full mouth and eye colour – except for her hair being a much paler shade of yellow, rather than the rich gold shade of Neniel’s, and her eyes were narrower in their shape. One pale blond eyebrow rose over bronzed skin.

She inclined her head. 

My child.

The thought rang from the water with enough force to make Maglor wince and take a step back; Neniel reached out with both her hand and in thought, steadying him and bracing him, even as she smiled into the water. It was a rather apologetic smile, he noticed. Her hand rested lightly in his. 

Well. If there had been any doubt about her mother being a Maia before, there certainly wasn’t any doubt about it now. 

Emmá! I’m sorry about running away. 

Her mother nodded. Apology accepted. Who is this?

Maglor bowed his head, before meeting her eyes. Maglor Fëanorion, of the House of Fëanor, my lady. 

The eyebrows drew into a fierce frown. Why are you with my daughter? 

He’s teaching me Sindarin, Neniel said, her smile widening. It’s alright, Emmá. 

The woman scoffed. He is dangerous, daughter. 

And we’re not? Neniel asked quietly. Her mind brushed against the edges of Maglor’s, showing him a memory.

Neniel sat in a small hut of woven rushes, her brow furrowed in concentration as she sang. There was a globe of water above her head, with a fish swimming contentedly in the depths, and it hung there, perfectly suspended and held in place. There was a scratch at the entrance behind her, and Neniel sang louder, gaze still fixed on the globe, until there was a strangled sound from outside the door. Neniel’s eyes widened in horror, and her song stopped mid-note, the water sphere collapsing into the floor.

The woman’s eyes were wary. An accident. You meant no harm to your cousin.

No, Neniel agreed, her tone soft. But I almost killed him anyway. And whatever Maglor does, it will not be accidental. I trust him that far. 

Maglor found his tongue. My lady, you are right to be wary of me. But I mean your daughter no harm. 

The woman’s head tilted back, and she studied him. Maglor met her gaze evenly, saying no more. Being under her gaze felt like being under the eyes of his father. Not in the colour, but the nagging sense that – if he so chose – he could disassemble each part of you, and pick apart each component. 

You’re telling the truth, she said, at last. Very well. Nurwë! 

Neniel’s face brightened even further, and her grip tightened around his hand, squeezing hard. The old instinct of reassuring little brothers, baby cousins, and later on, a pair of tiny, heartbroken foster-sons, had him squeeze back. They waited until there was another face that appeared in the mirror, beside the Maia’s. 

He was very attractive, even by Elven standards, with the strong jaw and high cheekbones that reminded Maglor of Círdan. His nose was hooked, like his mate's; his hair was black, streaked with silver, and he wore dangling bone earrings, flecked with amber. His eyes were shaped like Neniel’s wide eyes, but were far, far older, and a dark brown colour. His eyebrows flew up as he stared at them out of the water.

Ataro! 

Neniellë!

The thoughts rang out simultaneously. 

I don’t know whether to say ‘thank the One you’re alright’ or to yell at you, droplet! 

Neniel smiled sheepishly. I know. And I’m sorry for running off like that. It was wrong of me. 

Yes. Nurwë’s eyes were curious as he took them in. Who is this? 

Neniel’s smile widened again. This is Maglor Fëanorion. He is teaching me Sindarin. 

Nurwë frowned, evidently teasing through that statement, before he sighed and bowed his head. You’re not coming back.

Neniel’s smile shrank and she nodded. I’ll visit. But – I want to see the world, Ataro. There’s so much more that I’ve never seen, so much I want to know! So much to do! 

Nurwë’s eyes were pained. I know better than to forbid you. And if you cannot defend yourself, then nobody can. But…

A rush of grief and loss, sorrow and joy all mingled together, set alongside a memory of a laughing little brown girl being swung up into Nurwë’s arms under a starlit sky. Neniel as an Elfling. 

I’m going to miss you too, she said quietly. 

Where will you go? 

To Lindon, a new Kingdom. It’s led by Gil-galad. There are healers who I might learn from, she said. But I need to learn Sindarin first. 

A wise step. Maglor Fëanorion? 

Maglor met Nurwë’s gaze evenly. My lord? 

Certainly not. But if you are a friend to my daughter, then you are a friend to me, even if I did not wish to honour the descendant of Phinwê of the Tatyar. 

Maglor felt his jaw slacken. No wonder the name had felt familiar, when he first heard it. 

You knew my Haru at Cuiviénen? 

You mean the Great Lake? Yes. A very good man, even if I thought going with Arômez was foolish at the time. He knew me as Nurwê of the Nelyar. I thank you for teaching my daughter. Come in peace to my lands, and you will find hospitality. If you do not, you will not make it past the eaves of the forest.

Maglor gaped. Not at the threat, but rather at the offer of hospitality. After a moment, Neniel nudged him, and he shook his head, trying to think. 

No thanks are necessary, he communicated, after a long pause. Your daughter is a credit to you. And I thank you for the offer. 

Nurwë nodded. Leave us to make our farewells, please. 

Maglor bowed, and stepped back from the bowl, pausing only to take the fish from Neniel’s other hand. She stood there in silence, her spirit twisting with love and joy and sadness mingled altogether, her eyes fixed on the bowl. 

Maglor settled back on the other side of the camp-fire, and ate the fish. When he finished it, he started humming a song one of his Captains had composed, all partings and reunions, sorrow and joy. 

Anar was high in the sky by the time Neniel’s hand dashed across the water, breaking the mirror. Her eyes were full of tears. 

Maglor rose to his feet, and stood beside her. 

“Come,” he said. “If you’re going to learn Sindarin, you’d better learn the tengwar as well.” 

She frowned, brushing away the tears. “What is tengwar?” 

He smiled. “One of my father’s better inventions. Here,” he grabbed a stick, and started sketching the first letter. “This is tinco.” 

 

---

Chapter End Notes

Arômez: what they might have called Oromë at Cuiviénen. Borrowed from the work of kazeara.  

Emmá: Kindi, 'mother', based off Sindarin 'emel.' Entirely my invention. 

Ataro: My attempt at providing a Proto-Quendian word that could provide a root for both 'Atar' and 'Adar.' I imagine Nurwë as one of the Unbegotten – yes, yes, I know, if he's of the Unbegotten, how can Neniel have cousins, trust me, it'll make sense eventually – is more inclined to use the earlier word rather than the current word used among the Kindi, for sentimental reasons. 

Matchmaker, Matchmaker

Neniel plays matchmaker, and Maglor is along for the ride.

Read Matchmaker, Matchmaker

 Days together turned into weeks, as they left the bank of the Baranduin to travel through the Eryn Vorn. The days were mostly filled with singing to the trees and the animals, going through the tengwar, and finding firewood while Neniel hunted for food. Apparently, she considered hunting her responsibility by virtue of her gender, much like he considered the cooking to be his job. His expression of startlement the first time he'd seen her skin an animal had made her almost shake with laughter. 

“Why do you assume that I don’t understand death?” she asked him, a smile in her voice, once she'd gotten her laughter under control. 

“I guess you do,” Maglor responded slowly, once he’d bitten back the objection that nobody expected a girl who sang like Vána Ever-young and attracted almost as many animals to skin them. It wasn’t accurate. The Amanyarin wouldn't, but the Sindar certainly might. And apparently, the Avari really did expect exactly that. “Death is part of Middle-Earth, and you were born here, and you deal in it. But you haven’t seen a war, Neniel, have you? It’s – it’s different. Death starts to mean something different.” 

Neniel pursed her lips and shrugged, continuing to peel the pelt from the carcass. “We are immortal, and the world is still not that old, compared to how old it may yet become. I think things will change.” 

Maglor thought about Beleriand, about how even young Elrond and Elros had never gone anywhere alone if they could help it, and shook his head. 

“For your sake, I hope they don’t,” he said. Please, no. Not Eriador too. 

Neniel smiled, and kept skinning, beginning to sing one of the work songs from Lothlann he’d taught her. Her brown hands were stained with blood. 

---

 Every so often, she would go to the river and sit beside it in silence, dangling her bare feet in the water, her eyes closed. Even centuries after Morgoth being cast into the Void and Thangorodrim thrown down, it made Maglor incredibly uneasy. 

“I wish you wouldn’t,” he told her one day, after she had sat with her legs in the Baranduin for about three hours again, bow cast aside, quiver unstrapped from her back, and head tilted to the side in silent contemplation. 

One golden eyebrow rose. “Wouldn’t what?” 

“Do that. Sit there so vulnerably.” 

She chuckled. “Oh, but I must. Commanding things should only be done at great need, after all. My father’s arts, for that reason, usually rely on persuasion, which means I must charm them. And I find it rather difficult to be charming with my weapons in hand.” 

He raised his eyebrows in turn. “You should have met my brothers. They could give extensive tutelage on the topic.” Although, he had to admit, charming was not the particular word anybody would have applied to Maedhros, particularly after Angband. Charismatic, certainly. Magnetic, even. Charming – not quite. 

Curufin and Celegorm could be charming, though, when they wished. Ambarussa, too. 

Carnë, on the other hand...

“I don’t think so,” Neniel said. “You don’t talk about them much, but I never got the impression they were very good listeners.” She frowned. “That – that sounded less rude in my head. I’m sorry.” 

Maglor snorted. “Of all the things you could lay at my feet, that’s probably one of the better things. No, we none of us were good at listening. Not even me.” If he was any good at listening, he would have realised that binding themselves to the Everlasting Darkness was an indescribably bad idea.  

“You’re a musician,” Neniel pointed out. 

“Aside from that, I proved a poor listener,” Maglor said. “But is that what you’re doing? Listening?” 

She nodded. “I am listening to the currents.” She frowned. “There is something strange going on with Ossë. And Uinen.” 

“Strange?” Maglor enquired. 

“They are unhappy. I do not know how I have not sensed it before, because it is not a new sadness – I suppose I always had something else on my mind, on visits before – but Ossë is sad. Uinen is, too.” She reached for her quiver and strapped it onto her back, and then reached for her bow.

“What are they sad about?” Maglor asked, although he has a strong suspicion that he knows Ossë’s half of the story.

He is sad, because he loves her and does not think she will love him back. 

She looked very troubled. “I’m not sure. I hope something ill hasn’t happened. Mam has not said anything, she would have sent a message.” 

“How?” he asked, curious. “The water-mirror?” 

“Or she would have asked a bird.” 

He blinked. “Your mother speaks to birds.” 

It really shouldn’t startle him, considering that Tyelkormo had spoken to anything with a pulse, and he’d seen Elwing turn into a bird, for goodness’ sake. But the idea of a woman who was technically a river speaking to the birds did surprise him. Neniel nodded, drawing a comb out of the doeskin pack that had appeared by their camp-fire a fortnight ago.

“She speaks to most animals. She could have asked a wolf or one of the dogs, I suppose. One of them brought the pack to me. Good thing, too. My hair was starting to look like a birds' nest.” She looked at him, and grinned. “Something you know a lot about, after all.” 

“Hush,” Maglor said, the corner of his mouth quirking, as he ran a hand through his hair. He’d cropped it to his jaw, at her suggestion, after she’d looked between his hair, the comb, back again, and winced. It was one of the many things he’d have never considered back in Aman, but the decision to cut his hair short hadn’t killed anyone yet, so he was willing to give it a chance. 

“Discussing things you know about–”

“You mean ‘speaking of things I know about’–” Maglor corrected.

She gave him a reproving look. He shrugged. “You asked me to teach you.” 

She held the reproving look for a few moments later, and then smiled. “I suppose I did. Thank you.” She paused. “Speaking of things you know – do you know anything about what is happening with Ossë and Uinen?” 

Maglor hesitated, and then realised that by hesitating, he had effectively already answered the question. Neniel’s smile widened. 

“You do know something!” 

“I know that Ossë is in love with Uinen, and is convinced that she does not feel the same way,” Maglor said. “That’s probably the sum of useful information I have in this.” 

“He thinks she doesn’t – men!” Neniel said, glaring up at the tree canopy.

Maglor smothered a smile. “I’m fairly certain that we can’t apply that term to male Maiar. Can we?” 

“Males,” she corrected, her glare swinging to him. “Alright. Uncle Ossë is being an idiot. What else?”

He shrugged, unable to think of anything else, and he felt her mind brush against his own, gently. The feel of their minds brushing together was almost pleasant now, as he heard the babbling of a brook. May I? 

 He sighed, and nodded, thinking back to the conversation with Ossë, and all that he had shown him. Neniel tossed the comb from one hand to the other, as she watched it unfold, and then she smiled.

“Uinen’s keeping?” 

“Don’t you start,” he sighed. 

“We can work with that. How’s your hand?” 

“It aches, but nothing more than that. What are you thinking?” 

---

Maglor sat by the seashore, and plucked at the harp-strings. An old Quenya ditty of anxiety, of love that the singer dared not to speak of. Beside him, Neniel swayed in time to the rhythm of the song, and broke into a wordless harmony, wrapping her sweet, strong voice around his. 

Flowers grow beneath my love’s feet, 

Her eyes are dark and her voice is sweet,

Sweet like honey, more maddening than wine,

And oh! How I wish I could say she was mine. 

 

But how can I speak, when she is so near?

How can I speak? My throat is closed in fear.

How can I speak, to one so dear, 

For if I speak, she will not stay here. 

The silly rhapsody continued, as the singer praised his love’s eyes, figure, hair, and lamented his own anxiety. Then Neniel sang a song in her Avarin language, melody quick and worried. Maglor responded with another sadder one, one of the haunting melodies of the Vanyar, of hopeless love for one already wed, forgoing the harp accompaniment, for his hand was aching now. He was fairly sure that it was a song that Indis had composed, before the Statute. Neniel sang again, a Sindarin ballad. They kept going, back and forth, until at last the only thing that came to mind was Leithian. 

He took a quick drink from the water-skin, and prepared to sing again.

Is this really your best chance?

I think so. Uncle Ossë has never been patient. 

Maglor hummed, finding the key he could sustain for the length of the song, and sang. Neniel sat beside him, her braid swinging as she nodded her head in time to the beat. At the third stanza, she got to her feet and started to dance, her arms swirling gracefully above her head as she spun circles around him. The world shimmered before his eyes, and he could almost see the woods of Doriath, all those years before he and his brothers invaded them. He sang, and she continued the dance, and it turned slow and ponderous as he sang of Morgoth’s might; fierce when he sang of Barahir’s men, all sharp aggressive foot-strikes and high leaps. On and on she danced, until he came to the fourth Canto. As he sang of Daeron’s flight, and Beren’s enchantment, she stopped, arrested, standing motionless and frozen. He paused. 

Her eyes locked onto his, her head tilting to the side. 

“Don’t stop,” she said softly. “I think it’s working.” 

“What’s working?”

“Ossë’s listening.” 

He continued to sing, slapping his good hand against his thighs for an accompanying rhythm, the tempo of the song slowing as the lovers met. The waves surged, and the Lady of the Seas walked forward onto the beach.

It was clearly Uinen. Her hair was long, and the colour of the blue-green seas; she wore a dress of sea-weed in the Telerin style, with a square neckline, and most of the back left bare. Unlike Ossë, when he chose to walk as a Teler, though, she had not bothered to change her skin to something other than a translucent blue shade. 

“Little singer,” she greeted him. Her voice sounded like the roar of a conch shell. “Streamlet. Why did you decide to recite seemingly every love song you know to me today? As wonderful as your voices are, your whims usually have a reason behind them.” 

“I was thinking of friends of mine,” Neniel said, smiling up at Uinen. “Who appear to be trapped in a love song.” 

“Are they, now?” Uinen said, settling down to sit beside Maglor. The edges of her spirit felt like the impenetrable depths of the sea pressing in on his mind, and Maglor winced. Uinen noticed, and the almost oppressive weight lifted. 

“Sorry, singer.” 

Maglor shook his head, and Neniel continued, rather cheerfully. “Yes, quite. Both of them seem convinced that the other does not love them.” 

“How tragic. If only one of them could dare to speak to the other,” Uinen said dryly. “You know my counsel already.” 

Neniel nodded, and Maglor took a gulp of water from the skin. Four cantos was a bit long, with no other player to play the instrumentals between the cantos. “Yes. Which is why I suggest that you take your own advice.” 

Maglor choked on the swallow, and Neniel thumped his back, until he spat the mouthful out on the sand. Uinen’s eyes had gone very wide. 

“Streamlet, what are you talking about?” 

“Uncle Ossë loves you. And you love him,” Neniel said, with a shrug. “And for two beings who are older than time itself to be stuck in this kind of dilemma is a bit strange, isn’t it? Isn’t it time to actually talk to him?” 

“He loves me?” 

“Yes,” Neniel said. She hesitated. “Why? Do you not feel the same way? I did not think I was wrong on that point.” 

“Of course I do. But if he loved me, why did he not say something?” 

Maglor cleared his throat. “It’s entirely possible he does not believe that it’s possible for you to reciprocate. And, rather than risk alienating you, he would instead choose to delight in your friendship.”

“It certainly seems to have been what you’ve been doing,” Neniel said, and Maglor’s eyes widened. Are you insane? “So why wouldn’t he?”  

Uinen’s eyebrows – seaweed green, Maglor noticed – curled into a fearsome frown, and she stood to her feet, muttering something in a language that tossed like a storm. Valarin, Maglor thought. She turned on her heel and walked down the beach, back into the waves. Neniel grinned, and got to her feet. 

"What just happened?"

"She's going to talk to Ossë." 

"She was here, not one minute ago–" 

Neniel frowned, tilting her head as she looked at him, and her mind brushed against his. He heard the sound of lake waters lapping at a shore as she sought to understand.

"Oh, I see," she said, after a moment, a rueful laugh ringing through the air. "No, I'm afraid that's a quirk of the Ainur. There is, often, very few stages between thought and feeling and choice. Often, the concept of choice does not come up at all." 

Maglor stared, feeling his brain struggle to wrap around that. "You're saying that the Ainur have no control over their impulses?"

"No," Neniel said. "But that's close enough for now." She offered him a hand up, and he took it. 

“Where are we going?” Maglor asked, as he slung the gear onto his back. 

“Back to the woods,” Neniel said. “There are some things that I don’t need to overhear, and Uinen and Ossë clearing this up is one of them. Uinen is probably yelling at him right about now, and then they’ll end up making for lost time.” 

“Making up for lost time,” Maglor corrected. Neniel wrinkled her nose at him, and Maglor shook his head, unable to suppress a laugh. “My life was a lot more predictable before you showed up, you know.” 

“Also more boring,” Neniel agreed cheerfully, taking his hand again. “Come on. Let’s go.” 

 

Noldolantë

Maglor tells the story. It's a little different from the Noldolantë.

Read Noldolantë

“Tell me the story,” she said, a few nights later. 

“I thought you said you knew it.” 

“I said I knew parts of it. And I haven’t heard you tell it,” she said, her eyes intent on his. “Tell me.” 

Maglor plucked a few more notes on the harp, thinking of the Noldolantë, and then looked at her. 

“There are several routes we can take here,” he said. “I can tell you a story that makes you weep for me and my family. I can tell you one that will make you weep for those we slew. I can sing you the Noldolantë.” 

She frowned, parsing this statement, before she nodded. “None of them. I want to hear the story as you felt it. I want to know your story.” 

He took a deep breath, and set the harp down. “I’ll do my best,” he said, as he looked back in memory.  

He told her of Fëanor and Nerdanel, in the early years. How Fëanor had rough hands that were nonetheless very gentle when they picked Maglor up after each day, balancing him on one hip as he ruffled Maitimo’s hair and quizzed them both about their lessons. 

Neniel chuckled. “I remember,” she said, “when I got too big for my Ataro to carry me. I froze all the water in a fifty-pace circle, and nearly froze the lake. Apparently, being half-grown did not make me too old to throw a tantrum.” 

Maglor closed his eyes. “When I was thirteen – just old enough to start experimenting with songs of power – I sang the half the tiles of the roof,” he said. “Atar was not happy with me.” 

Nerdanel’s calm wisdom and the smile she’d wear, sometimes when she sat at the kitchen table, and just regarded her husband and sons, her eyes fond and her laughter knowing.

He told her about his younger brothers. Of Tyelkormo’s wild laugh, and ready smile. Of how easy it was to aggravate Carnistir, and how Makalaurë and Tyelkormo had regularly teased him until that ruby-red blush came out to play across his features. Of Curufinwë’s exacting standards and his delight in craft, and his smile, surprisingly shy and sweet for one so fierce and cunning, whenever he presented his older brothers with something he made. And of Ambarussa: Pityafinwë’s cleverness, Telufinwë’s ferocity.  

He told her about the release of Melkor, and the doubt they’d all felt, doubt that had only deepened as time went on, and dissent seemed to grow to a fever pitch among the Noldor. Among the shock and the horror that had sprung in them, as his deceptions were revealed, and the sheer betrayal so many of the Noldor had felt, at the Valar failing to protect them from their own kinsman. The rage that had sprung in Fëanor when he had realised that no apology for their mistake would be forthcoming from the Valar, even as they punished what he deemed to be an infinitesimally tiny mistake, by comparison.

Maglor paused, swallowing around old guilt. “Uncle Fingolfin did not deserve that,” he told her. “He was brave, and loyal beyond all imagining, as we later found out. But my father – he was blind. In so many ways.” 

He swallowed again, and continued. Formenos. The terror, the rage, the grief, the guilt, the horror of the Darkening and Finwë’s death; the sheer butchery of Finwë’s corpse in the house. 

Tirion. The paralysis and inaction of the Valar, which had goaded the already enraged and grieving Noldor further still. The whirlwind of motion as Fëanor’s rage set their feet afire. The Oath, the Oath that he had never, ever stopped cursing.

Alqualondë. It had been tense already, as Fëanor and Olwë had argued over the ships. He still didn’t barely knew how the massacre had begun, what had made boiling tempers finally spill over into violence. 

The storms that had wracked them, as Ossë and Uinen demanded weregild in blood. Losgar, the second crime. That he hadn’t stood fast against his father’s foolishness, that he had doomed kith and kin to perish on the ice and killed them. Again.

The Battle under the Stars. Leading those first cavalry charges. The terror and exhilaration and sheer adrenaline of a battle. 

The hazy, numbness of the days Fëanor’s death, and Maedhros’ capture. 

“I left him there,” Maglor said, not bothering to swallow back the tears. “He was my king, my brother, and I left him there. For years, Neniel.”

He told her of the arrival of the Sun and Moon, and Fingolfin’s host, and how something that should have been so joyful had been so awful, because of his actions at Losgar. The return of Maedhros beyond hope, and Mereth Aderthad. 

He told her about taking the Gap, and holding it. Four centuries of combat, off and on, with raids across the wide open plains and the occasional serious offensive. Of the strength of the bonds that formed in the Companies, that he would later betray, the friends he would kill. 

He told her, his voice as level as he could keep it, of Dagor Bragollach, and of singing laments to the rhythm of gallops to lend speed to his troops’ horses on the frantic flight to Himring. His façade cracked further still. “We lost so many. So, so many. Not just my people. My cousins, Aegnor and Angrod. We were never particularly close, but – they were family, even if Atar did not wish them so.” 

Lúthien, and the awe and hope that had spread through the Noldor in the wake of her exploits. Nargothrond, the Union of Maedhros, the shattering devastation of the Nírnaeth Arnoediad: he spoke the tale into the starlight, as Varda’s gems glittered sternly above them. 

He told her about Doriath, and the massacre of the Thousand Caves, of leading his people to slaughter. The twenty-six years after, where they repented and struggled to hold the Andram Wall and Oath alike in check, against crushing darkness that had felt absolutely endless.

And softly, he spoke to her of the sacking of Sirion. Of killing those who had rebelled against his commands to take the city. Of taking Elros and Elrond as captives. 

“They made us smile,” Maglor heard himself saying. “Which makes it all the worse, really. We didn’t deserve them. Not in the slightest. But for a while, they made us smile, and laugh, and – and Maedhros and I taught them everything we knew. Not enough. Nowhere near enough, for burning down their home. And somehow, we stole their love too,” Maglor shook his head in wonder and disbelief. “And they made him smile. He didn’t smile often, by the end.” 

Neniel’s eyes were unreadable. “You loved him very much.” 

“I did once,” he said, so quietly and hoarsely it verged on inaudible. And he told her of the gruesome, awful last chapter. The War of Wrath. The breaking of Thangorodrim. And the slaughter of the Guards to take the Silmaril. 

He could not bring himself to form the words to tell her of Maedhros’ death. But the image of his brother leaping into the lava flow leapt into the space between their minds, the space which had narrowed with each and every time they had used osanwë. 

She shot to her feet, and began to pace, each movement agitated and frenetic as she shook her head in instinctive rejection of the image. 

“It’s a lot to take in,” he said quietly. “I’ll leave you alone to think for a while, shall I? Assuming you don’t want to leave.” She shook her head again. Maglor wasn’t quite certain how to take that. He glanced up at the sky. “I’ll be back by dawn.” 

“Careful,” she said. “There’s a bear who’s in a very bad mood not far to the north-east.” 

He smiled. 

He walked to a sturdy oak tree almost a mile away to the south, humming as he walked. An old lament for partings.  

She’ll leave, obviously, he thought, as he climbed into the tree. It was one thing, to have heard bits and pieces of the story, knowing how fragmentary rumours on the wind were. She could have convinced herself that it wasn’t that bad. But now, having heard the whole bloody tale from his lips–

Well. The sensible choice was obvious. And he really shouldn’t have permitted himself to even think of this as a friendship. She needed someone to teach her Sindarin, and he should not have wished for anything else.

 But he did. He could admit that to himself. She was lovely, charismatic, intelligent, and brave, and she had charmed him with about as much effort as she charmed the breezes themselves. He would have been honoured to call her his friend.  

Moon-set had passed now. She is not his – not friend, nor subject, nor kin, nor anything else – and that’s a very good thing, considering the Doom and Oath and all the rest of it–

But I’m going to miss her, he thought. 

At dawn, he slipped out of the tree and walked back to camp, wondering if it wouldn’t be kinder just to save her the trouble of an awkward (at best) parting.

No, he decided, after a long moment of thought. It was a selfish decision, in a long line of selfish decisions he’d made, but he’d like to see her, one last time. And if she decided to yell or shout or punch him – well, he could duck the punches. Probably.

She looked up from the camp-fire, and rose to her feet, walking to him and pausing in front of him. 

He braced himself, but when one of her hands lifted from her side, it did not curl into a fist; it simply ran through her hair in a gesture of weariness that looked utterly wrong on sunny, sweet Neniel. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “For your grandfather’s death. Your father’s. Your brothers’. Your friends. I’m sorry, Maglor.” 

Maglor tried very hard to keep his voice even. “It’s not your fault.” 

“I didn’t say it was,” she said, which was technically true, but she sounded tired and guilty, and if she hadn’t been asking herself what might have been if she had been in Beleriand, he’d eat his harp.

“You don’t hate me?” he asked. Both to distract them both from that line of thought, and because–

He did not understand. He failed his father, his brothers, his people. He had stained his hands with so much blood that he could drown in it. Why did she not hate him?

She shook her head. “No. No, I don’t hate you. I’m not sure what I think of you, or how I feel, but I know it isn’t hate.” 

“I’m a murderer. And a thief,” he pointed out, in case she wanted to reconsider that point. It seemed important.   

“I know. You were reluctant, and you are regretful. If you hated yourself anymore, it'd colour the air around you! And I don’t know if that’s enough, but – but hating you wouldn’t do any good,” she said, voice shaking. “Hasn’t there been enough of that?” 

There were probably about half a dozen holes in that argument that he could have found. But then, he didn’t want to, beyond the utter certainty in his bones that he did not deserve this gesture of pity, or compassion, or whatever it was. But then again, he hadn’t deserved Elros or Elrond either.

So instead of protesting any further, he squeezed her hand, once. Neniel mustered a shaky smile. 

“Come on,” she said, wiping at her eyes. “I need to think about something else for a while. There must be some silly songs you haven’t taught me yet.” 

“When are you going to teach me a silly song, I want to know?” Maglor asked, keeping his voice light with a supreme effort. “Or indulge my curiosity? For instance, how does an Avar, who refuses the summons of the Oromë, fall in love with and marry a Maia?” 

Neniel coughed, looking up at him. “You really want to know?” 

“Yes.” 

She looked at him. “It’s going to sound very silly, after you telling me of the – of your story,” she said. 

“I thoroughly approve already,” Maglor said, sitting down against a tree and facing her. “Tell me the story.”

Neniel closed her eyes, rolling onto her back and staring up at the sky, as the sunrise broke across it, pink and orange light painting itself across the expanse. After a long moment, her eyes opened and she began to speak. “In the years of starlight, some time after the Great Sundering, restlessness took some of we who remained. So we split again, and we divided into two groups. My father, Nurwë, of they who called themselves the Nelyar in the beginning, led the group which would call themselves the Kindi. He led us west, following the paths of the Tatyar and the Minyar, who had walked over the land, for the trees told us where they had gone.”

She paused. “It came to pass that my Aunt became ill from eating a bad berry, when they crossed the Brown River. Ataro held counsel with his family – my aunt, her husband, who led the tribe with him – and they decided that the forest they had found was as good a place as any. The kingfishers sang, and the fish darted through the waters like ribbons of colour. They were wary of the brown colour of the water, though, so my father went to the river to be sure that they were clean to drink. As he leaned over the river to drink, my mother spotted him. He was wearing long bone earrings that were carved with waves, and my mother was intrigued. She had seen Elves before, but none of the other hosts had worn earrings. They were made for him by a Tatyarin friend, before the Sundering, and Ataro is never parted from them. So my mother reached up to look at the earrings, just as my father was leaning down to drink.” She paused, and Maglor felt a chuckle rise up in his throat helplessly at the mental image, at the obvious turn of the story. Neniel’s smile was soft and held a hint of mischief. “My mother did not have a good sense of how strong she was then, though. She pulled him into the river.” 

Maglor’s chuckle bubbled in his chest, too sudden for him to stop it from escaping, and he shook his head. “I take it your father was not pleased?” 

“He was very alarmed,” Neniel said, a faint laugh in her voice. She sounded a bit less tired now. That was good. “Mother was very curious about his earrings, and I think about him in general. She insisted on walking back with him to camp, even though it took some time for her to figure out how to shape a body. By the time they walked back to camp, everyone else was starting to get worried, and it didn’t exactly make matters easier when my mother admitted that the reason he had been delayed was because she had pulled him into the river.”

“Can’t imagine why. So your mother admitted that she’d almost drowned your father.” 

“She said she hadn’t realised that Elves weren’t equipped with gills,” Neniel said, “but she could answer their question as to whether the water would be safe for them to drink. She said that none of our tribe would ever suffer harm when we drank from the river-water, and that the river would give generously to them.” Neniel paused. “After a long while, ten star cycles or so, my father asked her if she would stay with our people. She said that she would, so long as she could stay with him.” 

Maglor smiled. “How did your tribe take that?”

Neniel’s smile was small. Just barely there, in the corners of her lips quirking up. But it was a smile, and that was something. “By then, I think my Aunt was teasing Ataro about how she knew he loved the water, but she didn’t know that he loved it that much. People came around, eventually. Mam's stubborn.” 

Maglor laughed again, and Neniel continued, emboldened. “Now, some time after this, a woman of the tribe came of age, Lunya. She is slow to speak, and often, she struggles to put things into words. Lunya loved a man who was somewhat older than her, and he felt the same way, but would not speak to her before she received her–” Neniel hesitated, before she brushed against his mind. The touch of her spirit felt delicate, almost hesitant. An elleth lay on her front, the skin of her back bare, as a mallet was driven into her skin. Maglor failed to suppress a shudder, and Neniel shook her head. 

No, it is not a punishment. The marks you receive, they are a sign of honour, that you are now an adult of the tribe. 

Maglor looked at her warily, and she spread her hands. “It’s our way, Maglor. Just like the tengwar is yours. And–”

She cut herself off and Maglor nodded, hearing the unspoken anger at the end of the sentence. And Kinslaying. Neniel shook her head, as it to clear it of the thought.  

“Lunya loved him, but he would not speak to her, and she did not know how to speak to him. So one day, when he was going down to the river to retrieve water, she waited for him in the river, hid there, and then pulled him in and kissed him. And even to this day, that is how the Kindi take their mates, in honour of Nurwë and Dînen, whose eye was caught by a pair of earrings,” Neniel said. The way she finished the story – sing-song, and matter of fact at the same time – made clear just how well-loved the story was, not simply among her family but among her tribe. Yet another treasure that she had given to him. 

“Thank you,” he said. 

She sighed. “You’re welcome.” Her eyes met his, and he thought he saw her cheeks darken slightly with a blush. “I meant what I said. I don’t hate you. It’s just – a lot to take in.” 

“I know,” he said. “I understand.”

They were quiet as the sunlight filtered through the tree canopy.

---

Chapter End Notes

Tattooes as a coming-of-age ritual was inspired by 'Malu' by BadOctopus, a Moana fanfiction, which is in turn based off Samoan practises of tattooing. I think it works well for the Kindi. 

Credit must go to Raiyana for all her help with this chapter.

Also, it didn't really work as part of the ending scene, but this happened too: 

"I know you said the bear was in a bad mood, but I didn't realise it was that tetchy."

Neniel shrugged, baring her teeth at him. He supposed it could technically be called a smile. "To be fair, I was tetchy too. Besides, we can use the meat."

 

Aftermath

Neniel's thoughts in the wake of Maglor's revelations.

Read Aftermath

Perhaps it would not have been so bad if Maglor was not so gifted with words, Neniel thought, as he walked away from the camp. Maglor had not sang any of the tale, but she had tasted the blood and ash on her tongue from the Havens as he spoke of his invasion, had seen the caves of Menegroth painted with red, the quays of Alqualondë drenched in blood. 

The moon was barely a sliver in the sky that summer night, and the crackling of the fire seemed less cheerful and more threatening than it did before Maglor spoke. Fëanáro: Spirit of Fire had been his name, had been nothing more than a description, Maglor had said when he spoke of Fëanor's death, his voice filled with pain and grief and rage and, buried far beneath that, old love. 

He burned down a city, Neniel thought, dizzy. The man who cooks the rabbits I catch burned down a city. 

The man who worried about her when she cried–

He chased a mother from her children!

Son whom I never sired, he had told her about Elrond, and the pride and love in his thought had been real, it had, but now the old guilt that had also lingered around the thought was explained. But the pride and the love had been real. Hadn’t they?

He killed for gems. For gems. Why? 

She couldn’t look at the firelight. It looked too like the lava flow which Maedhros had leapt into that she had seen flash across his mind.

She closed her eyes. I wish you were here, Mother.

Longing swept through her, fierce and overwhelming: her mother’s boundless strength, her father’s patient wisdom, her calm, soft-spoken Tauren. Her cousins: steady, warm Tuilo and vivacious, flirtatious Ráca. Her mischievous, merry brother Helado; her cheerful, hot-tempered Regen. 

What would Ataro say if he knew?

What would he say to Neniel now?

The wind tugged at her hair, carrying the sharp smell of sea-salt; the far-off echo of Ossë’s laughter and the whale songs. 

What would Ossë say?

Ossë knows, she realised, with a sudden start, the smell of salt somehow sharper in her nose, as her thoughts flashed back to the first day at the cove. Ossë knows, and Ossë does not hold it against him. Uncle can’t. He rebelled too. 

She gazed up at the stars, shining down fiercely. She didn’t think about that often these days. But it had puzzled her so, so much when she was a child, that the same Uncle Ossë who played with her under the starlight and gave her sea otters as a gift had nearly fallen to the Shadow, and had helped mar Arda itself. The same Maia that had torn at land with the waves and created storms had also dandled her on his knee, and who adored her mother Dînen, even as he bickered with her. 

“Uncle,” she said aloud. “No. Grandfather Ulmo.” 

She closed her eyes. She had never addressed the Lord of Waters thus, but it really was accurate, if you looked at it from a certain point of view. She calmed her breathing and deliberately slipped into reverie.

She walked in her memory by the sea-shore, and the waves took voice.

Why do you seek me, child?

“Why did you forgive Uncle Ossë?” 

A ripple of amusement from the water. 

Hello to you as well.

“I’m serious.” 

So am I. Listen to the Song, and you will know.

“I listen every day! And I don’t know, and I need to know!” 

Listen to the Song, the waves repeated, and you will know. 

---

She opened her eyes, and rose to her feet, clipping bow and quiver onto her back. She ran to the river. The wind tugged at her hair insistently; the owls hooted softly in the elms and the alders. It was amazing that the stars still shone, she thought, as she stopped on the river bank. The faint sense of dizziness rose, as she fell to her knees.

How could you?

The water rippled in silent confusion. 

How could he?

The river thrummed with her mother’s power, with the strength of water that could shape land and caves through sheer persistence, that could give life and wash away tree roots and stones in the same season, in sweeping, raging torrents. She had not been afraid of water, even in the slightest, not until she had seen the Brown River flood for the first time. Her mother had laughed, long and hard, her laughter filled with the ferocity of the water, and Neniel had cried because she wanted to laugh, too, because she felt like she could fly, but her cousins’ faces were pinched with worry, and they had to move the encampment to higher ground. The second that the move had been complete, she had ran down to the willow trees, sobbing and laughing, totally overwhelmed. 

It had been Uncle Ossë who had flowed up the river to find her in the willow groves. Ossë who had picked her up in his arms and carried her back to the encampment, who had rocked her gently and whispered words of comfort into her ear. 

“We are water, and we are dangerous, little one,” he whispered. “But we are made of great goodness and give life, too.” 

She leaned forward and splashed the starlit water onto her face. Uncle Ossë had not been there when she had almost killed Tuilo. But Tuilo had held her once he came to, and had whispered words of forgiveness into her ear, even as she shook with tears again. 

“Tuilo,” she said, into the waters. “Show me Tuilo.” 

Her cousin’s face swam into focus, peaceful in sleep. He was nestled against his wife, Sílena; his face was buried in her neck, his leg thrown over her hip. 

Neniel flicked her fingers through the water, breaking the image. At least one of them was having a good night. 

“He forgave me,” she said aloud. “And he didn’t have to. I certainly didn’t deserve it. I was careless, and my carelessness nearly killed him.” 

The water burbled; an owl hooted a cry of victory. His hunt had been successful. Tilion’s sliver of light shone down steadily. 

“I don’t think he deserves it.”

The water rippled, and a pair of beady dark eyes blinked up at her. Neniel scraped up a smile for the sea otter, and whistled to him. He scrambled into her lap, claws digging into her leg. “What do you think?” 

The otter gave a low, rumbling purr. 

“You otters ask for that story every time,” Neniel told it. “But fine. I was a child, and I loved to play in the sea, but my Ataro did not think that the eels made very good pets. He thought I needed something soft. So Ossë and Uinen sang your ancestors into being, and gave two of the mating pairs to me. They became your kin, the otters of the rivers.” 

The otter nudged at her hand. 

“Did I deserve you? Well, I’m not sure. I was a child. Very young. Barely came up to Ataro’s knee.” 

The otter nudged at her hand insistently. “Well, yes, if you want to put it that way, you were a gift that I didn’t deserve. I certainly hadn’t earned you.” 

The otter crawled off her lap, and padded a soft circle around her. “Yes, I know that gifts were made to be given, I’m not a complete idiot, whatever you might think of me.” 

The otter chirped. 

“Mercy is a gift, too?” Neniel studied the otter with narrowed eyes. “Ossë put you up to this, didn’t he.” 

The otter looked almost sheepish, and squealed. 

“Uinen. Of course. I should have known.” Neniel sighed. “Still, I wanted counsel from my kin, and evidently, I’ve gained it. Mercy is a gift, and it is important to the Song.” 

The otter chirped again, almost smugly. 

“Yes, I know, I am only a foolish half-Elf, with no wisdom to compare to the venerable otters’ memory,” Neniel said. “No need to remind me!”  

She got to her feet, and walked back to the camp. 

(When the bear came near the camp growling and snarling, it was something of a relief.)  

---

Chapter End Notes

The names are adapted from Sindarin, and mangled into something resembling at least superficially Primitive Quendian, that could be a reasonable candidate for Kindi. I'm not really happy with it, but it's about as good as I can make it, short of just making something up. They may be subject to change later. 

Tauren: Forest woman ('taur', forest, Sindarin, 'en' elided form of 'wen'.) 

Tuilo: Swallow, Kindi. Related to 'tuilinn', swallow, Sindarin. A few years younger than Neniel, and Ráca's twin. Neniel's cousin.

Helado: Kindi, kingfisher, adapted from Sindarin 'heledir.' Taurenë's husband.

Ráca: Kindi, wolf, adapted from Sindarin. Tuilo's female twin, and Neniel's closest friend. 

Regen: 'Prickly woman', adapted from Sindarin.

Sílena: 'Shining woman', adapted from Sindarin.

Be Still and Know

In which things do not go back to normal, a hurting Neniel hurts Maglor, and Ossë continues to be surprisingly wise.

Read Be Still and Know

“You can’t be serious,” Maglor said, looking down at the bearskin pelt that Neniel just finished cleaning.

She raised her eyebrows at him, leaning forward to wash her hands in the river.  

“Why not? I’ve said all the blessings, and you need a new cloak,” she said. “And while I’m no weaving expert – I tend to leave that to my brother Helado – between this, and all the rabbit-skins we’ve already got, we should have enough material.” She looked him up, then looked him down. “Certainly enough to start with, anyway."  

“But there is no need, because my cloak is fine,” Maglor argued. 

“Maglor, it’s more patches than cloth at this point.”   

“I’m very attached to those patches,” Maglor said. “They have sentimental value.” 

“Liar.”  Neniel smirked up at him, tucking her hair behind her ears with hands that were still half-stained. “You can’t fool me, Maglor, I’ve heard you talk about the harps you owned once. You like nice things.”

“They’re your pelts, Neniel, the spoils of your hunts,” Maglor said. “You deserve to keep them.” Unlike…well. The corollary was obvious, surely.

 …And from the sudden clench of her jaw, and the purse of her lips, it was easy to see that he’d said something wrong, but he was very confused as to what. 

“Was it something I said?” Neniel raised her eyebrows at him, and Maglor sighed. “I’m not totally oblivious, Neniel. I do have some ability to read you by now. You’re upset. Why?”  

She hesitated, and then said at last: “You.” 

Maglor swallowed. It was to be expected, he told himself firmly.   

“Something I did or said? Or everything I told you last night?” 

“Both. I can’t figure it out. At Alqualondë, you were afraid. At Doriath, you were despairing. Your words made that very clear. But Sirion – Sirion?” 

“Sirion,” Maglor said, and he took down the mental shield he had placed around those memories. “There was an Oath, and a Doom, and an ever-growing Shadow and pile of dead, and...there seemed to be no way out.” 

Neniel shook her head, refusing the invitation. “And that’s what I don’t understand. I don’t even know if I can ever understand it.” 

Maglor let out a long sigh. “Good.” 

“How is that good?” 

“If you can’t understand despair, it means that you’ve never felt it. You cannot understand the Oath, because you have never bound yourself to Darkness. That’s a good thing.”

She scowled up at him. “You’re doing it again. Being strangely kind. I don’t think Kinslayers are supposed to be kind.” 

Maglor shrugged, and tried to find the words, swallowing down the hurt. It was absurd for that to hurt. “I don’t have much left to me,” he said at last. “I’m certainly a shadow of who I was. Perhaps it’s better that way. But I have that much, though. Some scraps of kindness left in me. So I’ll hold onto them, for as long as I can,” he said. “Who knows? If your Uncle is right and the Doom is a little more fluid than I’d thought, perhaps the kindness will do a little bit of good.” 

Neniel’s frown deepened. “I need to go and talk to Uncle.” She got to her feet. “I’ll be back in two days. I’ll get some salt, too.” 

“Oh,” Maglor said. The ache in his chest and the lump in his throat, unlike the ache in his hand, was entirely unreasonable. Unfortunately, it did not seem inclined to go away based on that. “Alright. I’ll see you in a few days.” 

She looked over at him, hesitating. “You’ll be alright. Won’t you?” 

That was still concern shading her voice. He mustered a smile for her.

“I did manage to feed myself for a few centuries before you showed up,” he told her. “I’ll manage.” 

She nodded, swung her packs onto her back, put on her weapons, and started jogging down the river bank.

Maglor looked after her retreating form for a long moment, before he settled in against a tree and began humming a song from Aman to try and soothe the ache in his chest. 

---

 

Neniel jogged down the river-bank to the estuary, where she’d first met Maglor, listening intently to the sound of the water as she walked. The river sang today, soothing the ragged edges of why? and the lingering how could he?  and the nagging sense of betrayal. 

Why? Why do I feel betrayed? He has never lied to me, never pretended to be anything else. 

He had not. And yet, the tales of what he’d done had seemed so utterly dissonant with the grief-struck, lamenting man that she had met on the bank of the estuary. Just as the idea that Uncle Ossë could have ever served the Dark Rider who haunted the earliest tales of her people had been so utterly dissonant as to verge on ridiculous when she was a child.

The tough grass turned to coarse beach sand under her feet. The roaring of the waves and Ossë’s laughter filled her ears. The cove was filled with sea otters and fish, teeming with even more life than usual; even the shells seemed to resound with more noise than normal. 

She took a deep breath and cried out with voice and spirit both. “Uncle Ossë! I need to talk to you!” 

For a few minutes, there was silence. And then Ossë rose from the waves, clad in the form of a Linda Elf. His robes of sea-weed were brighter than normal today, somehow iridescent in the sunlight, and he wore a crown of coral that she had never seen him wear before. His smile was luminous when he saw her.

“Streamlet!” He picked her up in a bone-cracking hug, his scent of brine and lightning and fish surrounding her. “What’s wrong?” he asked her. “You feel unhappy.” 

She sighed. “Maglor told me last night. Everything, I mean. From start to finish.”

“Ah,” Ossë said, hugging her again. His spirit brushed against the back of her mind, and his eyes half-closed as he took in the emotions. She let out a breath as she feel the ache of betrayal lessen. 

“I talked to Grandfather Ulmo,” she said.

Ossë laughed, amusement ringing from him. “Ah, no wonder he was smiling today.” 

“About you,” Neniel said, and Ossë’s laughter suddenly stilled. “And why he forgave you.” 

“Ah,” Ossë said, releasing her from the hug. She sat down, suddenly very tired, and feeling like she was forty-five star cycles and organising hunting schedules for the first time. 

Overwhelmed, said the memory of Maglor’s voice gently taking her through Sindarin vocabulary. The word you are looking for is ‘overwhelmed.’ 

“You had to learn at some point,” Ossë said, sitting beside her. 

“Are you telling that to me, or to yourself?” Neniel asked. 

“Both. It’s a hard lesson to learn, I think, for one who has grown in so much peace. Your family knows lack and abundance, knows hard winters and easy ones, but you have not dealt with what it is to have your very self twisted out of key. Not since Cuiviénen.” Ossë closed his eyes. “And with what happens after.” 

His spirit brushed against hers again:

The aching gnawing I will never be the same–

 The shift of the Song that would always have a mournful undertone from that point on, a deep grief that wailed in strange harmony with Nienna's tears–

I cannot go back, I cannot go back–

And the sudden silence, broken only by the memory of a breeze.

What is marred will yet turn to unlooked-for good, the breeze whispered, followed by the defiant, piercing scream of an Eagle.

Neniel shuddered. “Why?” 

“Why what? Why is there evil in the world? In us?” 

“No,” Neniel said. “Why – why did he forgive you? That’s what I asked Grandfather Ulmo last night. He told me to listen to the Song, and that I’d know. But I listened this morning, even though Uinen told me about the otters, and even after that, after what you just showed me, I’m still not sure that I know.” 

Ossë smiled. “My poor, hasty little niece!” 

“Not you too!” Neniel complained. “Bad enough that the Onodrim keep calling me hasty.” 

“But you are,” Ossë laughed. “Ulmo is right. If you listen to the Song, you will understand. But you’ve been listening to that Noldo of yours too much! You are thinking that you can know this, like you know tinco parma quessë, and about as quickly. You will learn to insto this the way you learned to hunt. The way you learned to listen to the forest and the river.”

Insto. To know with one’s heart and mind and soul. A knowledge that ran deeper than understanding of the mind, that ran so deep that it was to an Elf what the groundwater was to the land. Knowledge that could only come slowly. 

Neniel sighed, burying her head in her hands. “I should have stayed home and kept organising the hunts.” 

Ossë shook his head, long hair swinging with the motion. “Nonsense.” 

“It would have been simpler.” 

Ossë smiled, pressing his spirit to hers once last time, and whispering hope into her senses, the feeling of stars burning fiercely in the sky despite the darkness. “But you were not made for simple things, my streamlet,” he said aloud. 

She sighed, and lifted her head. “I’ll take your word for it. I like the crown, by the way.” 

Ossë’s smile widened. “Uinen made it.” 

Neniel laughed at the reminder of Ossë’s joy, the product of which filled the sea in front of them to teeming. “I suppose that you two worked things out, then? I thought you might have, from the sheer number of fish in the cove today.” 

Ossë laughed again, smile luminous. “Yes, we did.” 

“Wonderful! It only took you a few tens of thousands star cycles to catch up to what everyone else already knew.” 

“Yes, yes, you made your point,” Ossë said. “And it was your hastiness that jolted us out of a very old sadness, so I thank you for it. Still, I don’t think you can hasty your way out of your current dilemma. You’ll just have to wait and listen.” 

Neniel sighed. “What a cheerful thought.” 

Ossë smiled and drew her to her feet with webbed hands. “Come and play with the otters. It’ll help.” 

Neniel smiled. “What, no moray eels?” 

“I have not forgotten the tongue-lashing your father gave us for that, even if you have,” Ossë chuckled. “No, no moray eels. Not even if you are strong enough to kill a bear on your own.” 

Neniel laughed, stripped off her weapons and her clothes, and followed her uncle into the water. 

---

The trees did not whisper of her approach as she returned to camp, concealing her presence as she had asked them to do. The setting sun bathed the alders and tall, elegant elms in breathtaking radiance, orange and pink light filtering through the trees. She studied Maglor intently, leaning back against a friendly beech tree.

Who are you?  

He had moved away from the river-bank and was singing a song in another language.  He was deftly dicing leeks, and putting them in the cooking pot. She closed her eyes, and saw the images in her mind’s eye from his song: a room filled with silver light, and curtains that were slowly drawn closed to create darkness; a warm hand brushing over a child’s forehead, singing of stars and silver trees, and whispering words of warmth and comfort and love.

It's a lullaby, she realised, feeling a lump in her throat as longing for her family hit her again. 

He is forever sundered from his family, she thought, a wave of horror hitting her at the thought. Unless the Doom has run its course. 

Forever separated from her sisters, her kin – she was not sure she could imagine what it would be like, to live with such a fate. 

How would I have lived? If I had lost both my younger sisters to violent death? 

Maglor kept humming, and stirred the stew. 

“Why do you think I can’t die yet?” the memory of his tired voice played in her ears again. 

She stifled a sigh. 

You really do make it difficult to hate you, Maglor Makalaurë.  

Because in that moment, it all seemed to come together. The youth she’d seen glimpses of in the beginning of the story, who loved his family and music and poetry more than anything in the world; the prince, the cavalry commander, the regent, who had steeled himself to argue on numbers alone to leave his dearest brother to death; the one who had led his people to slaughter three times, and lost five brothers in the doing, and yet had mercy on two tiny, helpless children, and had taught them all he knew.

The brother without brothers, the son without a father, the prince without his people.

The man who, when he had seen her crying, had reached out with thought and mind and comforted her as best as he could. All iterations who belonged to the Elf who stood in front of her, dicing vegetables for a stew. 

The breeze stirred her hair, carrying the scent of pines from the north.  

This is what he is. But what might he yet be?  

I can't look at him the way I used to. Can't treat him as I used to.

But perhaps this is not the end.

She stepped away from the tree, set her pack down, and stomped on a twig so that she wouldn’t startle him. He jumped, his hand dropping the knife and halfway to his sword, before his gaze found her. Slowly, the tension drained away from his body, as he picked the dagger up again and wiped it on his shirt. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to–” 

“I know,” he said. “It’s alright. I know.” 

Storm-grey, luminous eyes were filled with amusement, and warmth, and below that, acceptance, even as the last of the tension around his shoulders rolled out. 

Neniel smiled a tentative smile, and ordered her spirit to be still and listen. “Would you mind teaching me that lullaby?” 

Slowly, Maglor nodded, a small smile tilting the corners of his mouth up, even as he reached for another leek. “I’d love to.”

Fenlands

We have a change of scene, and our heroine reveals some unexpected talents.

Read Fenlands

Things had shifted after that, Maglor noticed, as the summer slowly waxed to its fullness. Neniel was slower to speak, and often watched him through half-lidded eyes, as though she were in the middle of working out some torturous puzzle, or would spend hours in silent contemplation.

“You’re doing it again,” he told her, feeling the hair on his arms prickle, as they walked east through the forest. According to her, fifteen days walking would take them to the fenlands, and they could trade some of the pelts strapped to his back and the salt in her pack for needles and thread with the Men who lived there. As they walked, thrushes sang merrily in the trees as though to cheer her, and the rowan trees hung heavy with their berries.

“Hmm.”

He tried again. “What are you thinking about?”

“Lúthien.”

…Alright, he hadn’t expected that.

He glanced at her. She was staring into the forest without really looking at it, weaving and dodging around tree roots by some sixth sense, rather than needing to look where she was going; the way of a huntress born from the river and rock and root itself.

“Anything in particular?” he prompted.

“I’m wondering what that’s like. For her to love so strongly that she’d leave her kin.”

Maglor shrugged. “According to most songs? She was going after Beren to stop him from going to his death.” He sighed. “And for all that her choices helped set her and her line against mine – they call Eärendil’s light Gil-Estel, you know. The star of hope. And without her choices, and the choices of her children, the Host of the Valar would never have come.”

“Do you think she knew? Of the legacy she’d leave?”

“Most songs say that Thingol and Melian were both wise and foresighted. It’s possible.”

Her eyebrows drew together into a frown. “Wise and foresighted? He set a Silmaril as a bride-price! How was that w–” she stopped mid-sentence, and horrified comprehension dawned on her face, in the slightly parted lips and widening eyes. “He never meant for Beren to succeed.”

“That’s what I thought,” Maglor said, staring up into the tree canopy. The sun was shining down on them, and they both stood in it without flinching. It was important to remember that. Remember that he was here, and not in the Thousand Caves. “Finrod thought it might have been meant as a joke. Only my cousin Artanis was there to witness it, and for obvious reasons, she was not inclined to tell me.”

She frowned. “Artanis?”

Ah.

“The youngest of my uncle Finarfin’s house, his daughter. She and her brothers crossed the Ice with Fingolfin and his House. She goes by Galadriel these days. Her mother was Eärwen of Alqualondë, Thingol’s niece by Olwë. So she and the other Arafinwions were counted by Thingol as his kin, and trusted in Doriath. Galadriel married Celeborn of Doriath, who gave her that name.”

"Oh!" Neniel said. "Yes, I met her. She and her husband's people came to us to negotiate for territory around the lake, a couple of centuries ago. She's very warm. Very kind." 

Maglor nodded. Everyone in the House of Finarfin had been kind, even Aegnor with his flash-fire temper, or Angrod, with his formidable ability to hold a grudge. "She is," Maglor admitted. "Kind and formidable. I knew her as a child. Quick to laugh, but also very serious at times. Restless, too, but then, we all were." 

"The whole House of Finwë?" 

Maglor nodded, and then reconsidered. "Well, perhaps not little Arakáno. He was one of the youngest ones of us at the time of the Darkening, barely past his majority. I think he was unsettled by the unrest – not an easy time to be born a prince, those years, with Melkor whispering in our ears – but I don't think he felt stifled in Aman, as many of us did." 

Neniel's head tilted to the side, as though she were listening intently to something. The birdsong, perhaps. 

"Hm. I wonder if Lúthien felt stifled in Menegroth." 

Maglor arched his eyebrows at her. “Possibly,” he said. “Why are you thinking about Lúthien? What brought her to mind?”

Neniel was silent, but out of the corner of his eye, Maglor saw her balance shift minutely away from him, as though trying to physically evade the question. Almost like flinching away from a blow.

He winced. “It’ll be alright,” he said. She remained silent, but her eyes met his, and they were almost cloudy with doubts. “It’ll be alright,” he repeated, threading his voice with the mixture of power and comfort and hope he’d used for his people and little brothers time and time again. She wasn’t cursed; for her, it could even be true.

She smiled at him. On anyone else, he would have called that smile shy, but that thought didn’t belong anywhere near Neniel. “Gi hannon.”

“Glassen,” he said, smiling back at her. “You don’t have to explain. But whatever it is that is troubling you – chances are good that you’ll figure it out.” She snorted, her smile widening, and she started humming a hunt-song. Maglor joined her after a few seconds, weaving a harmony around her voice, her soprano and his baritone twining around each other and making the world shimmer at the edges.

---

 After two weeks, they crested a small hillock, and beyond it, saw the fenland. The pools shimmered in the light of the morning sun, the green rushes of the marsh glowing with health and life; little islets stood in the middle of the wetland. White water lilies bloomed in profusion along the islets, and so did blazing purple irises with their sombre, drooping petals bending towards the water, as though to drink ever deeper of it. On the pools and streams themselves, reed-crafts skimmed up and down, and everywhere lines were cast into the water. Maglor tilted his head to the side, as he saw the reed-boats drift from islet to islet and between the banks. About half a league down the delta at a point where the delta narrowed somewhat, there were little houses sunk into the river-banks, standing on stilts. It was an odd design, but he could see the applicability for a flood-prone area.

Neniel, meanwhile, was frowning, and sighing. “Good. Just the thing I wanted to deal with.”

“What’s wrong?”

“The forest is not happy with them,” Neniel said. “They’ve been clearing the poplar saplings.” This last was said in a tone of utter disbelief. "Who clears a sapling?" 

“Edain tend to both grow and die much more quickly than forests do,” Maglor reminded her, although he did rather agree with her. Not distinguishing a sapling from a full-grown tree was a terrible oversight. “It makes it harder for them to see clearly. When did your people last speak with them?”

Neniel looked up at the sky as she combed back through memory. Briefly, Maglor imagined what Elros, who had thought that most Noldorin Elves had a very strange notion of time, would have said if he’d met Neniel.

“Maybe fifty star cycles, or so?” Neniel said. “I don't like to visit too often. It holds…sad memories, for me.”

Maglor blinked, pushing old grief aside. “I’m sorry.”

Neniel shook her head, mustering a quick smile. “It’s alright. It was a long time ago.”

“That doesn’t always make it any easier,” Maglor pointed out softly.

She shook her head again, and there it was again, that minute flinching away. He swallowed.

“We should go and meet with them. Cover your ears.” She adjusted the packs on her back, and called out to the Men, her voice shimmering with power so that it travelled easily over the water. Maglor braced himself for the volume, and listened with interest. He could pick out a few words he thought might be cognates of Taliska: ‘greeting’ and ‘speak.’ The rest was a mystery.

There was a very faint reply from the Men, and one of the larger reed crafts veered in their direction. “Those things can actually support people’s weight?” Maglor asked her quietly. They didn’t look particularly sturdy, but then he never had been all that good at engineering.

She smiled thinly. “Noldo. What do you think we made the first crafts of at Cuiviénen?”

He blinked. “I didn’t think. My Telerin friends and I talked music more than we spoke of the crafting of ships. We made them from reeds?”

She nodded. “And we later passed it onto the Men. Relax. The boat will not capsize, nor will you drown.”

“I’m not worried. Well, not about that,” he said.

“Aren’t you?”

“Of course not,” Maglor replied, wondering how someone so very gifted in osanwë could also be so very obtuse.

“Oh. What are you worried about?”

He gave her his very best exasperated look, the one that had usually won a blush from Elros and a muttered apology from Elrond, on the rare occasion that the twins had done something truly foolish.

“What?” she asked, frowning.

He reached out, and poked her in the forehead.

“Ai! What was that for?” she asked, her hand catching his. The calluses on her fingertips rubbed against his knuckles.

“Sad memories, you said? We don’t have to do this,” Maglor said, concentrating on that pertinent fact, rather than the warmth of her fingers. 

“Well, we do now,” she said, gesturing at the forest with her free hand. “Clearly, they’re in need of another reminder on how to tend to the forest.”

“Still,” Maglor said. He squeezed the hand he was still holding.

Her eyes softened. “I’ll be fine, Maglor. Really. Besides, you really do need a new cloak.”

Maglor rolled his eyes. “Two centuries this cloak has lasted me, I’ll have you know,” he said.

“And after a long and happy life, it can move onto a better fate. Like being torn into cleaning rags, or bandages.”

It would not be a particularly clever or insightful retort to stick his tongue out at her, Maglor reflected, but it was tempting.

The Men were drawing close now. They were small; the head of the tallest of the two came to Neniel’s chest and no further. Their hair was light brown and blond, and on the shorter Man, it was shot through with silvery-grey. The Man who had poled the craft towards them was tallest and youngest of all, from the lack of wrinkles on his face and the assessing stare on his face, in contrast to the welcoming smile of the elder. Maglor took a step back, but Neniel's hand did not release his.

This is your negotiation, Maglor told her, reaching out in thought to her for the first time in almost a week. He swallowed at the sound of lapping waters. The casual touch of their minds felt like water after days without drinking, or food after days without eating.

…Oh, no.

He hastily raised a shield around that thought, and locked it away.

If you step back, it can be considered as an insult, she replied. If she had noticed the thought, she didn’t mention it.

She spoke again, touching her free hand to her lips, her sternum and then extending the hand out, palm up, gaze on the eldest Man. The entire motion was done gracefully and without pause, as she gestured to Maglor and introduced him. The eldest Man smiled up at her, as he performed the same gesture much more rapidly, and seized Neniel’s free hand, gesturing towards the craft. Neniel smiled, and stepped into the boat, letting go of Maglor's hand. Maglor gripped the straps of his pack carefully as he stepped onto the boat and found his balance. It had been a long time, and if there was anything further removed from the ships of Alqualondë, he couldn’t name it.

The Men leapt back into the boat, very at ease; the young man walked to one of the large paddles at the rear, and Neniel made to walk to the other, only to be shooed into a seat by the Man. Maglor carefully hid his smile behind his hand, at the outraged expression on the Man’s face, and the carefully-hidden exasperation that he could sense from her.

I take it that guests don’t paddle?

The young Man, once the elder’s back was turned, rolled his eyes before beginning to stroke through the water. The eldest sat across from them, beaming widely at them both, his voice warm. Maglor thought that he might have caught something that sounded like Taliska for ‘happy’ and ‘well done.’

Neniel’s eyes widened and she shook her head, withdrawing her hand from his, making a gesture of a flat line from right to left, something almost dismissive in it, her spirit blazing with a sudden spike of…not distress, precisely. But she seemed somewhat startled. Her response drew a skeptical look from the elder.

Is everything alright? Maglor asked her.

He is busy congratulating me on a happy marriage.

Ah.

“I’m honoured. But I’m also far too old for you,” Maglor said, making sure to keep his voice light and careless. It was better than the other objections which could have been raised. It might even be true, if they ever bothered to sit down and do the torturous calculations that would be required.

Neniel translated, and the Man threw back his head laughing, poking at his own face and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

“He says that you look a quarter of his age, if even that,” Neniel said.

She smiled at the Man, and slipped back into the other language. Maglor settled in to watch.

The reed craft drew up to the left bank of the delta. On the bank was another stilt-house, somewhat larger than the others. The stairs creaked as the Men climbed up them, and Maglor eyed them warily. Neniel raised an eyebrow at him, her lips twitching, before she turned to go up the stairs.

The door opened, and the room beyond it was large and low, forcing both of the Elves to stoop somewhat. A finely engraved table was set low to the ground over an intricately braided rush mat; without hesitating, Neniel walked to the far side of the table, and knelt at it. Maglor followed her, unloading the packs of furs from his back as he knelt at her left. At the opposite end of the room, just before a second door, was a pile of furs over a sleeping mat, more akin to a bedroll than anything Maglor associated with a bed.

There was a cluttering from beyond the door, and the eldest Man drew the door open. A woman stepped through; there were dark circles under her eyes, but her smile was wide and joyful. She was short; Maglor guessed that she would come to about Neniel’s ribs, if Neniel were standing. She bore a pitcher in her left hand, and was balancing a ceramic tray on her right hand, with cups and a bowl of fried fish on it. She set it down on the table, and performed the gesture of fingers to lips, and heart, and then palm extending out; Neniel reciprocated with a smile, not rising, and the woman looked at him expectantly.

Do I- he reached out to her mind.

-Yes–

Maglor bowed his head, and performed the gesture as well. The woman laughed, reaching out and patting his cheek gently, saying something to Neniel in a very teasing tone, before giving Maglor a knowing wink.

She thinks we’re married too, I take it, Maglor said.

She’s certain of it, Neniel replied. He could sense the rush of embarrassment that gave her brown cheeks a reddish tint. Maglor bit back a smile at the sight, as Neniel shook her head, gold braid swinging with the motion, and said something that sounded distinctly like a denial.

The eldest Man, sitting across from them back, chimed in at this point, and the woman walked around the table to kneel at his left, and the younger man – Maglor thought he spotted a family resemblance looking closer, the same cheekbones and snub nose – sat at his right. Husband and wife and son, then? The young man cleared his throat, clearly embarrassed, even as his glances darted between Maglor and Neniel.

He asked something, and Maglor heard something that sounded like Taliska for ‘bring.’ Neniel’s smile was warm and cheerful, much more so than he would have expected her to sound if she was talking about an over-harvested forest or pelts. Her words drew fierce head-shakes from the Men, and some polite, firm words from the Man’s wife; Neniel hesitated, and then nodded gravely.

The silence hung in the air awkwardly for a moment, and then Maglor heard a small, rapid patter-patter from beyond the open door; Neniel looked to the door and broke into a grin. Looking back at them, sucking on his thumb, was a small blond-haired child, with a weary-looking red-haired woman who appeared behind him and scooped him up onto her hip, crying out an apology. Maglor swallowed. Husband, wife, son, law-daughter and grandson, then.

Neniel laughed, and shook her head, and opened her arms in welcome, which drew indulgent smiles from the eldest Man and his wife. The child scrambled out of his mother’s arms, but did not run towards them; instead, he toddled forward hesitantly. Neniel opened her arms, nodding encouragingly at the boy, until he stood a few feet from her. She pulled him into her arms and lifted him, up and down, cooing at him in the Mannish tongue, and Maglor smiled again at the sight. She looked utterly at ease, as she hadn't since he'd spilled his guts.

Maglor caught ‘stay’, ‘if’ and ‘time’ from her, and that was about it, but it made the smiles on the elder couple’s face broaden to the point where they were as wide as the mouth of the Baranduin. Neniel spoke again, in a slightly more hesitant tone, and that won an effusive, almost dismissively so, response from the man, prompting her to speak again. Maglor caught ‘wood’ and ‘speak’ and it was only years of similar meetings that kept his smile in place, through the sudden realisation of you cold-blooded snake, you planned it so that they’d give us almost anything!

The young Man said something which made Neniel go very still, before she nodded, and set the child on her thighs, pulling the little boy into a hug. He wriggled in the hold, and she laughed softly, loosening her grip and smiling as he set a course for his mother again.

“Maglor,” she said.

“Yes?” Maglor asked.

“How good are you at healing songs?” she asked in Sindarin.

Maglor shrugged. “I think you’d be the more powerful of us two, but I have some skill at it. Why?”

“A little girl with a fever, for the past six days. Their healer isn’t holding out much hope,” Neniel said with a sigh. “You stay here, I’ll go.”

Maglor shook his head. “I’ll come with you,” he said. “Lead the way.”

Neniel slipped into the other tongue, nodding gravely at the young Man and his wife, and on his face, hope slowly flowered.

---

 The healers lived in their own encampment, with the serious cases of illnesses, on a large islet in the centre of the fenland. Herbs burned around the reed huts, rosemary, thyme, and fresh mint. Neniel and Maglor and the young Man walked to the central hut, where Maglor could hear a peculiar rattling sound.

Neniel cried out: “Hail, healer!” At least, Maglor was fairly sure that’s what she’d said.

The curtain of the hut was pulled back, and a stern-faced healer strode forward. He was short too, barely coming up to the top of Neniel’s ribs, but that did not deter him from glaring up at her with a frown like a thunderstorm, and beginning what Maglor could only assume was a dressing-down. Neniel’s lips pursed, and the young Man stepped in between them, speaking in soothing, mollifying tones; Neniel bowed her head as the healer’s gaze swung to her.

Maglor stifled the urge to sigh. Really. He was sure that Elrond would never be this territorial about his infirmary.

The healer gave a short nod and stepped aside, and Neniel ducked into the hut, Maglor following soon after her. It was dimly lit by oil lamps that smelt strange and fishy, but curtained entrances on the east and west drawn back created a cross-draft that kept the room from becoming smoky.

Maglor nearly stopped in his tracks at the sight of the child. She was tossing and turning on the low bed, her teeth making a peculiar chattering noise that he had never heard before, and her red hair was plastered against her temples with sweat. She was incredibly tiny; standing, she would have come halfway up his thigh, at the most, he thought.

Neniel set her hand on the girl’s forehead, took a deep breath, and began to sing. Maglor’s vision shimmered, with pools of water-lilies emerging before his eyes, and the scent of lightning that always hung around Neniel thickened in the air as she sang. She sang on, and he heard the trickling of the river outside flow louder and stronger; her spirit pulsed with power, and Maglor heard the chattering noise stop.

He opened his eyes, and as Neniel sang on, the girl was stirring, her eyes opening, until they were clear and lucid. Neniel drew the song to its conclusion, weaving comfort and reassurance and strength into the song, reaching out and squeezing the girl’s hands with a warm smile, before asking her something.

How she felt, presumably. The girl thought about it for a moment, and then said something that made Neniel burst into peals of laughter and the young Man into tears. Given similar episodes with Elros and Elrond in the past – although neither Elros nor Elrond had ever gotten this sick – Maglor would guess that she had said something  like ‘I’m hungry.’

Maglor shook his head, unable to suppress a snort of laughter. Children.

Neniel’s head turned towards him, something almost concerned in her face. But that was quickly overtaken by laughter and joy as she glanced at the girl again, and met his eyes, so Maglor smiled back.

 

---

Chapter End Notes

Gi hannon: thank you, Sindarin.
Glassen: ‘my pleasure’.

In which we get to meet the Men of the Minhiriath! If these guys get much love in fanfiction, I have yet to see it, so I’m glad we get to meet them now. I’m imagining that they came as far as the Minhiriath, but they decided after the journey from Hildoren after the Misty Mountains that “you know what? This forest is actually pretty cool. Y’all can go on ahead, we’re going to chill here. Oh, hey, look! Elves!” 

The fenlands in question are the Swanfleet; all I can find about them on Encyclopaedia of Arda is that they look like the Gladden Fields, and “the Swanfleet was effectively an inland delta, with uncertain streams and a very uncertain difference between land and water.” Hurrah for ambiguity!

The house design is based on Queenslander-style stilt-houses. I'll admit, since my slowly developing headcanon is that Hobbits are descended from Minhiriath Men, I was tempted to have them tunnelling, but I just couldn't figure out how that'd work on a floodplain. 

I’ll also admit that I was not expecting to do so much research on lamps and possible fuel sources, and nearly drove myself crazy figuring out what they’d be using instead of olive oil – until ‘fish’ sprang up as a possible source, and I was like, oh my god, I’m an idiot. 

As for Neniel having to pull the “we are not together” card – I regret nothing.
 
An explanation for the negotiation thing: okay, here’s how I see this going down. The Men ask Neniel how long they’re going to stay, because hospitality when the Elves come is super important – it’s not the people last seen in your grandfather’s lifetime rocks up on your boat, after all! Neniel says that they won’t stay long and they’re just passing through, they won’t take up much time, really. This meets with a round of fierce protests, and insistences that they absolutely must stay and at least eat and sleep there tonight; enter the toddler, stage right, and Neniel laughingly conceding that they certainly will, so long as she and Maglor are allowed to play with the children. The Men are not surprised, seeing as the eldest ones present remember the last visit, and all the legends are firmly agreed on Elves adoring children. She relies on them being so effusive at having Elf guests that the leader and his wife will grant just about anything – of course you can talk to us about the forests! Why not?
 
Like Maglor said. Neniel is a little snake sometimes xD. But hey, you don’t spend thousands of star cycles as the eldest daughter of a chief without learning something about tactics. Neniel’s just really good at hiding it.

Also, Maglor, honey? You’re a mess.

 

Singing in the Sunlight

Neniel makes a decision, and Maglor goes into denial. 

Read Singing in the Sunlight

Neniel was much more cheerful after that, Maglor noticed; there was a spring to her step that he had never seen before. They left the hut with the little girl in the Man’s arms, and Neniel strode to the paddle, beckoning Maglor to follow her. The Man cradled his daughter in his arms with obvious relief, attention solely fixed on her. The girl snuggled into her father’s chest, like she was exhausted, and Maglor smiled. 

“Good memories?” Neniel asked quietly, taking the wood and beginning to stroke through the water. Maglor looked for the second paddle, and could not find it.

“Yes. Is there a second one? We’re going upstream, after all.” 

Neniel grinned, tilting her head back a little. “Maglor. Who am I?” 

Maglor paused for a moment, and then felt his smile widen. “Ah. How foolish of me.” 

Neniel laughed, bright and joyous, casting another glance back at the Man and his daughter as she pulled the paddle through the water in smooth, effortless strokes. The girl wriggled out of her father’s lap and walked to Maglor; he winced a little, as she stared at his scarred palm with wide eyes, and poked at it. Ai!

 Maglor bit back the cry of pain, and shook his head.

“No,” he said, kneeling and looking down into her eyes. “No, child.” She looked younger than Elros and Elrond when Maglor had first met them, but then, Elros and Elrond were probably not good standards of typical growth for the Men. His hair rustled around his shoulders as he shook his head; her eyes were drawn to that instead, and she reached forward and tugged on a fistful of the strands, her eyes going wide. Maglor thought he caught ‘soft’ and chuckled at her as she tugged on it. This, he could deal with. He untangled her fingers from around the lock.

“What did you think it would feel like? Straw?” he teased. 

The girl giggled, catching his tone, if not his words, her eyes going wide as they travelled up. Her hand reached for his ears, and Maglor caught her wrists gently before she could prod at them too. Neniel glanced back and laughed. She caught the father’s eye and said something to him in a merry tone. The Man turned pink and moved forward as though to take his daughter back. Maglor waved him off, saying, “It’s alright, all is well” in Sindarin, and hoping that his tone would carry his meaning. He might be Doomed, but he was fairly certain that he did not require rescue from a child who could not be older than six at most. The Man hesitantly took his seat again, and the girl smiled up at Maglor, holding her arms up, saying something.

“I assume I’m being ordered to pick her up?” he asked Neniel.

“Quite insistently,” she said, something odd twined into her voice. Maglor raised his eyebrows at the little girl, before lifting her onto his back. As her tiny arms slid around his neck, he rose to his feet, giving her plenty of time to cry out if the height had spooked her. But judging by the delighted gurgle that came from her, she was not alarmed. He gripped her hands with his good one, and moved to the front of the boat.

“Are you alright?” he asked her. He seemed to be asking that question a lot.

She smiled at him. “I’m fine. You make a very pretty picture with her. I’m almost jealous.” 

Maglor grinned back at her. “You’re the one who healed her. I’m sure she’ll want a cuddle later on.” 

“I doubt that,” Neniel said, a laugh in her voice now. “She’s picked her favourite, I think. Apparently, you are taller, and thus, far more deserving.” 

“Ah, well. She’ll learn eventually,” Maglor said. 

The boat pulled alongside the bank. Neniel jumped out, holding her arms open for the child. Maglor passed the child to her, and then gestured for the girl’s father to go ahead of him. He leapt onto the bank, receiving the now-sleeping child from Neniel’s arms. There was a glad cry from the house, and Maglor smiled as the girl’s family came rushing out to greet her. 

“I don’t think you’re going to get to speak to the foresters today, river-daughter,” he said, as they watched the girl’s mother snatch her up and cuddle her.

Neniel’s smile was bright, shimmering with delight and hope. “No, perhaps not. But in the mean time–” she gestured at the family portrait in front of them. The girl’s brother had climbed up his father’s leg, and was reaching across to tug on his sister’s arm and chatter to her. His father was attempting to get a word in edgewise, by the looks on his expression; the girl’s mother was looking down on her with a look of unutterable relief. The grandfather was beholding his family with a calm satisfaction, even as his wife bustled down the steps and approached Maglor and Neniel, saying something to Neniel. From the sheer gratitude in the tone, Maglor thought that he could make an educated guess at the content, even if he couldn’t catch any cognates this time around. Neniel replied softly. “It –” something that was almost certainly a form of ‘to be’ – “our joy.” Neniel added something else, and the woman nodded. The family spoke quietly for a minute, before the parents and children walked back inside with the grandfather. Maglor made to follow them, and Neniel’s fingers wrapped loosely around his elbow. 

“We’re not going back inside?” 

Neniel shook her head. “Only to get our packs and our pelts, and then we’ll go to the guest quarters. Negotiate there, and stay out of their way so they can get ready for tonight.” 

Tonight? Why would– oh.

“There’s a party?” Maglor asked.

Neniel nodded. “Dining and drinking. And for you, likely a lot of dancing with the little ones. I hope your toes survive the night.”

“They’ve had worse,” Maglor said, smiling back at her. 

---

 The guesthouse was a single-story structure built to be about the same size as the leaders’ house themselves, on the same stairs-and-stilts model. The door opened into a front room, which had two doors on the far sides, to which the Grandmother gestured. 

“Guest rooms?” Maglor guessed.

Neniel nodded, and touched the fingers of her left hand to her breast, then her lips, and extending it towards the woman. Maglor mimicked the gesture, and the woman laughed, crossing the room to them and patting his cheek in maternal fashion. 

I’m at least twenty times your age, he thought, but he smiled back at the woman anyway.  

Neniel heaved the pelts in her arms and knelt on the floor. They had wrapped the other pelts into the bearskin, and now she set the bearskin on the floor, unrolling it. Maglor picked up her pack, and found the sea-weed wrapped salt in her pack.

This too? He asked her silently. 

Almost imperceptibly, she shook her head. Right. They’d keep it as a reserve, then. He helped her lay them out. Maglor had  the rabbit pelts on the cloak, his eyes widening as they continued. Had it really been that long? They hadn’t eaten rabbits everyday, of course, but when they’d had them, Neniel had usually shot at least two to make a stew. Three, if all of the ones she had found were rather small. 

He thought back. When they had met, the winter had passed, but there was still chill in the air. The cordgrass had lost the winter brown flowers, but the yellow flowers had not yet appeared.

Early spring, then. And now it was almost high summer. Just over three months, perhaps. 

The woman’s eyes went wide as they continued to lay out the pelts until about half of them lay spread out on the bearskin. She gave an exclamation, and Neniel laughed, gesturing towards herself, and then jerking a thumb towards Maglor. The woman looked at Maglor appraisingly, and gave a nod. 

The woman reached out and ran a hand over the five pelts that were a pure black colour, and the three more that ran to a dark grey, rather than the usual pale brown, and asked a single interrogative. 

Neniel named the goods, and the woman recoiled, shocked, and asked another question. Neniel laughed, and shook her head, pointing at the pelts laid out before her again. The woman’s body language relaxed a little, as she leaned forward again, running her fingers over the pelts once more. She made a comment, and Neniel nodded, humming, before adding something in a softer voice. The woman shook her head, and Neniel held out her hands for the pack. Maglor handed it over to her, and Neniel withdrew the seaweed package. The woman smelled it, and she looked at Neniel, saying something in a soft voice. 

Neniel inclined her head and smiled, regal as Indis herself. 

The woman gathered up the black and grey pelts, and after some consideration, selected several pale brown pelts, glancing at Neniel with a raised eyebrow. Neniel nodded, smiling again, and the woman beamed, extending her palm before touching it to her sternum; Maglor mimicked the gesture at the same time as Neniel doing it. The woman laughed again, and said something cheerful to them, before standing and leaving through the door. 

Maglor shifted into a cross-legged position. He eyed Neniel as she packed the pelts away again, counting them as she went. 

“I think there should still be enough material,” Neniel said. “She’ll give the yarn and the needles to us tomorrow.” 

“How long do you intend for us to stay?” 

Neniel hummed. “A few days, I think. Play with the children, do some washing, speak to the foresters tomorrow, speak with my friend at some point. Then we can move on.” She raised an eyebrow. “Assuming that that’s alright with you.” 

Maglor blinked at her. “Your friend?” 

Neniel’s smile turned sad. “A few visits ago, I came with one of my good friends. Alado. Born under Tilion’s light. I played with him as a baby. He was strong, clever, quick to laugh and quick to sing, and he would move through the forest as light as a spring breeze.”

Maglor reached for her hand and squeezed, catching the past tense. “What happened?” 

Her fingers tightened around his. “We were hunting a boar, and he misjudged a leap. Fell and broke his leg and the boar charged him before I could stop it. It got him in the–” she tapped the femoral artery on her left leg, and Maglor named it for her. 

Maglor blinked. “Why was he leaping?” 

Neniel’s mind brushed against his: a woman with black hair and in hunting leathers leapt from tree-branch to tree-branch, as below, on the forest floor, a wild boar squealed in outrage, until at last she found the right angle and sent an arrow into its eye. 

Maglor nodded, and squeezed her hands again. “So you come here to remember him?” 

She shook her head, pointing to the northern wall of the house. “His spirit lives here. It’s strongest by a knoll a few miles that way.” She hesitated, and Maglor could see the idea taking hold in her mind. “In fact…”

“Go,” Maglor said. “Tomorrow will be busy enough.”

She shot him a quick, grateful smile and got to her feet, crossing the room and closing the door behind her. 

Maglor closed his eyes, and thought about the morning. The way she had deliberately – provoked? Invoked? What was the correct term? – an invitation to stay; the way she had extracted a promise to be permitted to speak about the forests to given as a gift, rather than a favour. It was impressive. 

And then there was the way that he had leaned into the brush of their minds earlier, the way his fëa had reacted to it with the same eagerness as a diver breathing in air after they broke through the surface of the water.

I wouldn’t be so stupid. Surely. Surely not. 

No, it was simply the fact that she was charming, and attractive, and the only company he had had in far too long. The inevitable effects of his exile making itself known. But soon enough, he and she would part their ways, and this would be nothing more than memory. Very happy memories, no doubt, for the most part, but still, mere memory, to be add to the host. Still, it had been a few months, she had become fluent in Sindarin, and there did not seem to have been any evil end, not yet.

I wonder if this qualifies as a change in song?

He did feel different now. He had laughed and smiled more in Neniel’s company than he had in centuries. And now she would be able to go to Lindon, probably after they left here, and learn anything that Elrond had to teach her about healing. And Elrond would do it cheerfully, Maglor had no doubt. Their meeting could be very interesting. Something of a pity that Maglor would probably not witness it, but you couldn’t have everything. 

And then? What will I do when she has left?

Without her singing triumphantly as she came back to camp, voice growing ever louder, with her prey slung over her shoulders? Without her teasing to fill the air and the space around them? She had utterly destroyed his numbness to the passage of time when she came into his life. When she, and her smile, and her laugh left it…

He leaned forward and let his head thump against the wooden table.

“I’m an idiot,” he told it. 

The table, at least, would not condemn him. To evil end, indeed.

No, that wasn’t true. Not all partings were evil. Painful, yes. Evil, no. 

He had to remember that.  

---

She climbed to the grassy knoll at the top of the hill, and lay on her back. They had reached the fenland that morning. Arien had climbed to her zenith not long before, and had bathed the delta in her radiance.  The songs of the rivers rippled with greeting and welcome; a lark sang in the trees. Twining all around them was a cool voice that sang of the thrill of the chase under the moon and stars. 

She lifted her voice in a harmony, and soon, the song shifted. 

River-daughter, huntress, it’s been quite a while! 

Come now, sing with me, come, give us a smile!

River-daughter, huntress, where are you going?

Dear Neniellë, where have you been flowing? 

She sang back, the words tumbling out of her mouth in her worry. She could hardly talk to Maglor about this, not without hurting him even more, and she was reluctant to do that. But she wasn’t good at keeping her thoughts quiet and still, not like Tauren or Sílena, and she knew that he had noticed. It had been awkward, to say the least. 

I wander where I often have, beneath the moon and stars,

But as I wander with this man, I see so many scars.

What can I do? Friend, you see, I’ve no clue where to start, 

And I don’t know if I should: the whole mess hurts my heart! 

Alado’s spirit sang again merrily.

Would you tell the otter not to swim? The birds not to fly?

Would you tell the Elfling not to chase after magpies? 

Yes, tell the dog “It’s wrong to run!” Tell the tôthû: “Sit still!”

Tell the river not to flood when it drinks past its fill! 

To withhold and to hoard your grace has never been your way,

Generous, that’s what you’ve been: why should you now stray? 

Neniel threw up her hands. The larks had ceased their song, irritated by the squabbling of the Elves, but there was an otter climbing up the river bank, drawn by her exasperation. It chirruped a worried inquiry, and she reached out to stroke its fur, as she sang again. 

How can I forgive, in heart and soul?

It was not my sons he stole! 

How can I say “Let us rebuild?”

I am not the one he killed!

Alado laughed again.

My friend, how hard you think on this! 

I’m almost tempted to reminisce! 

The answer’s as clear as your river is brown,

Grudges once picked up can be set down!

Neniel blinked, feeling suddenly deflated. “Oh,” she said. When he put it like that…

There was a certain logic to it. And if she did not release Maglor, if she continued to hold his deeds against him, she would never heal, she saw, with a sudden, blinding flash of insight. Part of her would remain angry, raw, hurt, and never would that wound heal unless she decided to let it heal. It would take time, but she had to choose it. There could be no other way. 

She closed her eyes, pictured Maglor’s face in her mind, and exhaled slowly.

I've been shown mercy, too. Let's see what good may come. 

A strong breeze rustled through the trees, stirring her hair, and Neniel smiled up into it, as the tangle of hurt and betrayal and rage loosened, loosened, and finally fell away, like so many rope-knots falling to the forest floor. 

Alado's echo laughed, as he felt the change in her spirit. 

Death clarifies a matter or two, 

My friend, so glad am I to see you! 

So tell me of home! Tell me of all I’ve missed!

Have you and Banë yet managed to coexist? 

Neniel stuck out her tongue at her friend’s ghost, before replying to his question. She sat up and gathered flowers as she sang, and let the otters gather around her, chirruping happily. Eventually, the larks were persuaded to return, once they were sure that the squabbling had ceased. A peace filled her, as she gathered the flowers.

It was the only decision that she could make. She did not know what the consequences would be, aside from the obvious answer that there would be consequences. But so be it.  

It is not the nature of rivers to hold back. 

---

“Hold still,” Neniel ordered him as they stood on the verandah of the house. “They’re not poisonous, Maglor.” 

The heat of the afternoon was fading. The celebration would begin shortly after sunset, and the sun was hanging very low in the sky as the Maia nearly reached the end of her day's journey. Maglor eyed the bunch of white lilies in Neniel's hands warily.

“It’s not that,” Maglor said, wondering once more how they could have so much difficulty understanding each other, and how someone very intelligent could apparently not see the problem right in front of her. 

“What is it, then?” Neniel asked, tilting her head. She had come back from her communion wearing a crown of irises, and with more of the purple flowers braided into her hair, and with a large handful of white lilies that were very clearly meant for his own dark hair.

“You are the one who healed the girl,” Maglor deflected. It was not the first objection he had thought of, but he thought it was legitimate nonetheless. “It is you they wish to honour tonight.” 

“No, we are both the guests of honour,” Neniel said, with equal stubbornness. “They are not throwing a feast because the girl was healed, though her kin are certainly overjoyed that she will live. They are throwing a party because tonight, their grandfather’s legends walk among them, and everybody will be wearing flowers. It’s something of an occasion. I was under the impression that you understood that, considering that you cleaned our clothes while I was gone. Thank you for that, by the way.” 

Maglor shrugged. “It was no trouble.” Admittedly, his hand was aching again as a result, but he could live with that. Laundry had been a chore that Neniel had quietly taken over when they started travelling together, claiming that since she was responsible for the bloodstains on her jerkin, she should be the one to get them out, and calling it recompense for all the rabbits she made him debone. 

She snorted. “I can hear the pain, Maglor. It was trouble.” She hesitated. “Do you think if I tried again it would help?” 

Maglor’s head tilted to the side in surprise. “If you tried treating my hand again?” 

She nodded. “Your spirit is stronger than when we first met. Do you think if I tried again, it would cooperate with the healing?” 

Maglor’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you saying that I wanted my hand to be in pain?” 

Neniel’s expression was level and unimpressed. “Maglor. You were continuously singing laments for your younger brothers, for days, in a cloak that was more patches than cloth, hundreds of leagues south of all your remaining kin. You tell me.”

He swallowed. “It’s not that I like being in pain,” he tried to explain. “But…” 

“You were convinced that you deserved it?” she finished wryly, raising a blonde eyebrow. 

“Well, yes. And…” 

It had taken nearly all of his energy to simply go on living. The idea of getting better had been as far beyond his frame of reference as the Doors of Night were to the child that she had healed. He tried to push the thought towards Neniel, since the words wouldn’t come.

She nodded. “I know. Are you ready to heal now, though?” 

I don’t think it’s too late to change the song you sing. And who among the Ainur was better qualified to say? Granted, Ossë was not regarded as a paragon among the Ainur, but then, that made it all the more fitting for him to advise Maglor. 

“We can try,” Maglor offered. 

She reached out and took his scarred hand in hers, pressing the lilies into his left hand, and closed her eyes as she began to hum. 

Are you ready to heal?

Well, he had two – more or less – working hands already; did both of them really need to be painless?  

“You might need hope for this,” she said, her eyes opening. 

Maglor swallowed. “I don’t think I have a lot of hopes left, Neniel.” 

“If you have no hopes left for yourself, then for Elrond,” she suggested. 

Maglor thought about that for a moment, and then took a deep breath, thinking of Elrond’s dear face, and the hopes that he had piled up for his son over the years. Let him be happy. Let him be safe, with Gil-galad. Let him be loved. Let him heal. If there was anyone in the world who should be loved and healed and whole, it was surely Elrond.

 The scent of lightning in the air thickened again, mixing with the scent of the lilies. His vision swam with otters darting through the Baranduin, and banks of cattails, and the wind blowing through enormous stands of oaks and alders and birch trees. Through the trees, Maglor saw a flash of gold, there and gone as quickly as a thought; in the vision, he leapt after it, calling for it to wait, but the blonde – Neniel – laughed and dodged around an oak. 

A tap on his nose broke the reverie. “Test it,” Neniel said, her eyes alight.  

Maglor curled his hand into a fist and then uncurled it. Flexed and bent each finger into the positions that they would take to pluck harp-strings. Spread his fingers out as wide as they would go, and then brought them all closed together so that they formed a single block.

Nothing. No pain. Absolutely nothing. Only the scar remained. 

He smiled at her, and nodded. “Thank you,” he said. It was far, far less than should be said, but it was the only thing he could think of at the moment. "Thank you." 

"There is no pain?" 

"None at all," Maglor told her. 

An triumphant smile took over her face, before she tapped the hand that held the lilies. “Good. Now you can have no excuse not to wear these.” 

“Scheming snake!” he told her, laughing from both startlement and wonder. No pain. None at all. “Alright, get me the comb, and I’ll see what I can do.” 

She smirked as though he had paid her a great compliment, rather than an insult – another cultural difference, almost certainly – and disappeared into the room, re-emerging and tossing him the comb a few moments later. Maglor began combing out his hair, slowly untangling the knotted ends.  Neniel watched him, smiling, her knees drawn to her chest and her arm dangling over her knees. Maglor felt his cheeks heat a little under her gaze, as he dealt with another knot. “How was your visit with your friend?” he asked. Better to think of that, rather than... 

She shrugged. “It was very good, thank you.” Her head tilted to the side. “Does it bother you?” 

Maglor hesitated, and then shook his head. “No. But I can’t understand it, either. Why would someone with nothing to fear from the Valar refuse the call?” 

“Because we love this world,” she answered. “No matter the danger that Oromë warned us of, we can no more stop loving this world than we could carve our lungs out of our chests. Not every voice on the wind mourns, Maglor. Alado is almost as merry in his death as he was in his life.” Her smile widened. “Almost. He was always exuberant.” 

Maglor contemplated exactly what sort of personality would make Neniel describe someone else as exuberant, and grimaced. Neniel laughed.

“I take it that I shouldn’t introduce you?” 

Maglor raised his eyebrows. “If you think there’s time,” he said, keeping his tone bland. 

Neniel laughed even harder, slapping her knee, as Maglor tied off the braid. He looked at the remainder of the lilies on the verandah floor, and at the garland that Neniel wore. 

“I’ll take that as a no. So why are you looking at the lilies with such concern?”

“I don’t know how to make a crown from flowers,” Maglor admitted. 

Neniel leaned forward and picked up the lilies, before her head cocked to the side. A few seconds later, Maglor tilted his head back, hearing the sound of laughter and shrieking approaching them. 

“Apparently, our welcoming party is here,” Neniel said, beginning to weave the lily-stems together. “Let’s go down. I’ll show you another time.”  

They walked down the stairs, and contended with the approaching whirlwind. Slowly, however, order emerged from the chaos that laughing children tended to generate. Maglor gripped the ankles of the girl who had decided that she would ride on his shoulders, chattering in his ear, undeterred by the fact that he could catch about one word in fifteen. Thankfully, by some miracle, she did not seem inclined to untangle his braids and the lilies in them. Beside him, a little boy walked, singing a song that – judging by the  half-sly, half-conspiratorial looks he was sending Maglor – was deeply inappropriate, and would usually garner adult censure. On the other hand, judging by the awkward way the three boys carried themselves, Neniel had drawn a trio of adolescents. The poor souls. One of them had presented her with a cornflower, with a look on his face that Maglor recognised very well: the look of a boy who has been trapped into a challenge that he is not sure he can do, but he will cut off his own arm before admitting it. Neniel had smiled warmly at the boy and taken the flower. He had turned pink, his blush deepening further when she bent to kiss the top of his head. The sororal gesture had made the another of the boys – clearly the sharpest-eyed one in the bunch –  wilt on the spot, but it made the boy who gave her the cornflower gaze up at her through his lashes. Maglor recognised thatexpression as well; he had very fond memories of seeing it on a twenty-two year old Pityafinwë when he met Elemmírë for the first time. 

Do you need some help? Maglor asked her, amused. 

If you wouldn’t mind? I remember what it was like being that age. It was horrible.

It really was, Maglor agreed. He stepped closer to her, and took the flower, carefully inserting it into her braid before linking their fingers together. Neniel’s eyes were still lit by that warm sunshine-smile, as she deftly set the lily-crown on Maglor’s head with her free hand, and the purple irises and gold of her hair both shone in the afternoon sunlight. Maglor swallowed, as the bow-string calluses on her fingertips rubbed against the harp-string calluses on his. 

Oh, no. 

The little boy beside Maglor had not stopped singing for so small a matter as the strangeness of grown-ups, and was oblivious to the slight wilting posture that had rapidly infected the older children. Indeed, he was singing even louder, to the point where one of the older boys turned a shade of pink that would have put Caranthir to shame, and hissed a reprimand. The moment was broken, as Neniel laughed, and began humming a different song, one that the girl riding on Maglor’s shoulders picked up immediately. Slowly, the song spread through the group, picking up the verses, and Maglor joined his voice to the song, his baritone forming the harmony for Neniel’s soprano, the cracking tenors of the boys, and the high voices of the children as they took the melody. He even managed to hide his wince when Cornflower – perhaps finding out his name would be a good idea – proved to be entirely tone-deaf. 

His hand was painless, and Neniel was happy. He simply needed to focus on that.  

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Neniel said, stopping in her tracks. “They’ll want you to play your harp. Eldest was curious about it earlier.” 

Maglor looked back at her, withdrawing his hand. “Now you tell me this,” he said, huffing a laugh, before beginning to lower the little girl to the ground. “Snake.” 

“Thank you. Go on, I think I can handle the littles for a minute without you.” She struck up a clapping game with the little girl, and Maglor ran back to the house for his harp. 

---

The night passed in a blur. Neniel had spent much of the night in deep conversation with Eldest, as Maglor had plucked reel after reel on his harp, until at last, some of the younger children had dragged him into the dancing by the bonfire. Eldest had introduced her to many of the foresters who she would go with tomorrow. Most had looked quite cheerful about the prospect, but two of the younger foresters had looked absolutely mutinous. And that had led into a detailed catch-up of the various family trees that had spread since Neniel's last visit, of who had married whom, who had died, and who had apparently crossed somebody else over a matter of stolen bait several decades' before and never been forgiven. 

She tossed and turned on the sleeping mat, unable to simply fall into reverie. 

What’s wrong? 

She rolled onto her back. 

 It was not hunger pangs that were bothering her; she had eaten a few hours ago. She’d had some mead, but not a great deal, certainly not enough to feel ill. Just awake, when she should have slipped into Lórien’s domain.

She sat up, rubbing her forehead.  

Perhaps it was getting used to sleeping inside again after a few months under the stars or in the trees. There were no tree roots beneath her, and no twigs or bark crunching around her. Was that it? 

No, she realised, turning the problem over in her mind. That was a related issue, but it was not the chief problem.

The chief problem was that she could not hear Maglor’s soft breathing. 

She got to her feet. It was high summer; she decided against taking the blanket with her, and picked up the sleeping mat. The smell of rosemary and thyme hung in the air. In the distance, the Greyflood sang, whispering of the salmon and the eels in her depths, delighting in the summer air and the sounds of the Minhiriath Men. Her song was sweet and soothing. 

She walked to his door and hesitated before pushing the door open. It squeaked angrily. 

So much for that plan.

Maglor stirred, blinking away his reverie. His eyes glowed in the dark, and made it harder to see the worried frown on his face. 

“Neniel?” 

She crossed the room to his side and knelt by him, setting her sleeping mat beside his.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, feeling very shy. 

Maglor sat up, swivelling so that he faced her. One of his hands found hers and squeezed it gently, scarred flesh against her soft palm. His spirit brushed against her mind gently, like a child knocking on a door, in wordless inquiry. Her heart pounded as she hesitated, and then she leaned into the mental touch, listening closely to his faelin. Maglor always sounded like a camp-fire to her inner ear. When she had first met him, that camp-fire had been burning low, but it had burned brighter and more fiercely, with time and company, and something to do. And now it was flickering brighter still, crackling with happiness from the night’s playing and dancing and singing. 

 He was still for a moment, taking in all of her emotions – the resolve, the delight from the afternoon’s work, the lingering homesickness, the ache of grief like a stretched scar – before he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around her. His hair smelled like smoke, and the heat of his body against hers was comforting. Hot tears pricked at her eyes, as a fresh wave of homesickness crashed over her. 

How long has it been since I had a hug? 

He hummed an acknowledgement of the thought, and tightened his arms around her. His arms were warm, and she rested her chin on his shoulder.

How long has it been since he had a hug?

“A while,” Maglor said. He must have heard that. 

She frowned. “How long?” 

“…Perhaps a century or so. Whenever I saw Elrond last,” Maglor admitted, and she made a horrified noise in the back of her throat. 

“Stars, Maglor.”

“Exile is a fitting punishment, I think,” he said, his hand rubbing circles into her back, as though intending to soothe her, as though she needed comfort.  “Really. It’s for the best, Neniel.” 

“Maglor.”  

“Shhh,” he said, still rubbing those circles into her back. The rhythm was slow and the pressure was firm, the same way that she would comfort Regen after a nightmare. “Shhh, Neniel. It’s alright.” 

The river burbled and sang on. Maglor shifted, his faelin flickering with those familiar notes of affection and pleasure and strangling guilt. She tightened her arms around him. 

“Don’t.” 

“Don’t what?” 

“Don’t pull away. Please,” she said. Don’t punish yourself like this. Please.

Maglor was silent for a long moment. Then: “Alright.” His breath stirred the hair behind her ear as he replied, voice soft as a summer breeze. “Shall I sing to you?” 

She smiled into his shoulder. “I’d like that.”

His voice filled the room with golden light as he sang, and she sighed as she slipped into reverie at last. 

 

---

Chapter End Notes

A/N: LONG note ahead, mostly about worldbuilding. Sorry guys. If that's not your thing, just skip ahead.

– Going with the fanon that Elven ears are erogenous zones, and thus, it’s kinda awkward/presumptuous to touch another person’s ears. Small children, naturally, tend not to give a damn, so I don't think it's the first time that Maglor has encountered the situation. Elven hair is not quite the same, but I’m headcanoning that it's still a very, hmm, intimate touch. Hence Maglor is lowkey freaking out when Neniel first comes in with the lilies, because she’s definitely not suggesting – is she…?
(Yes, I’m horrible. I know.) 

– Tothû: from Sindarin ‘hû’, dog, and ‘tog’, transitive verb meaning to bring. The Kindi move between their settlements on a rotation of about once every twenty-five years, so that no one area of the Baranduin’s ecosystem becomes too depleted, and so that everything has time to recover. The way they transport a lot of those goods is through travois-like devices that are pulled by dogs.

– The original exchange between Alado and Neniel included the line ‘Who art thou to stand against thy Song?’ Despite changing the line, I thought I’d include it in this note anyway. This line goes back to the faelin (soul-song) note in chapter 7. I think of the Kindi – being as they are a mix of Nelyarin Avari and Nandor, thanks to heget’s suggestion – as being very song-based in culture, which I’ve tried to incorporate into the story. Part of this is why they perceive and speak of osanwë in musical terms; to them, people have distinctive melodies, rather than distinctive natures. This is also to anyone saying that there’s no reason for them to be sing rather than speak. Neniel could speak to Alado, but song is such a treasured part of her culture that I doubt it would occur to her.

– Neniel’s conundrum is a question that I’ve tossed around a lot for this story. Does she have a right to hold a grudge against Maglor, or feel betrayed? Possibly not, considering that he has not, technically, committed any offence against her. But on the whole, I agree with Alado: grudges that can be picked up can be put down. Perhaps it seems odd for the forgiveness to come so quickly, but I think Neniel has mostly been confused on that point, and I also don't think that she doesn't particularly want to hold a grudge against Maglor. 

– “Scheming snake!” Neniel, having no experience with dragons/malevolent scheming reptiles, thinks she recognises a compliment to cunning when she hears one, and Maglor is in a playful mood. Or, How To Not Flirt: A Seminar by Maglor. 

– Elemmirë, famous Vanyarin bard who wrote a lament for the Darkening of the Two Trees. She and Maglor were definitely friends in this 'verse, and I am in love with the idea of Maglor's younger brothers all developing crushes on Maglor's music friends. Most of them grew out of it, too.

– Eldest: the characters that Maglor has been mentally referring to as Grandmother and Grandfather. I’m imagining a sort of hereditary title that gets passed down, the forerunner for the matriarchal society that Gollum comes from. So, Grandmother is Eldest, and the leader, but her husband is her 2IC, and their son is her 3IC, who does a lot of the leg-work, since Eldest has arthritis. 

– Note on coppicing: “Coppicing is a traditional method of woodland management which exploits the capacity of many species of trees to put out new shoots from their stump or roots if cut down.” I can’t fathom a lifestyle where the Avari, or even the Nandor, don’t use wood at all, but I think they would develop this. Some trees are more suited to this than others; oaks are quite suitable, whereas poplars are less suitable for this method. I think that the Elves, when they met the Men, definitely helped teach them these sorts of strategies, and it became part of the oral traditions of the groups of the Minhiriath Men. However, you always get people who are willing to play skeptic, and who prefer immediate convenience over long-term strategy, which is why the poplar stand has been suffering in this chapter, despite the fact that the Minhiriath Men are collectively great at managing their woods. 

– (How did I get into this. How did I start writing this ship. How did I start researching this. What happened to my life.) 

– MAGLOR GOT A HUG. PRAISE BE.

– (And yes, I know it hasn't actually been that long since Neniel got a hug. Humour me. xD)

  We're nearly reaching the end of chapters already written, so updates are likely to slow after Chapter 12. I hope those of you who've been clicking on this have been enjoying it!

The Love of Field and Coppice

In which Maglor panics and Neniel teaches about forestry.

Read The Love of Field and Coppice

 Her head was tucked against his shoulder. Her nose nudged against his collarbone, and her breaths were slow, even, warm, as they washed over his skin. There was no tension in her body as she slept, and no fear. Maglor continued to hum the song, to soothe both her sleep, and the way that his heart was thudding in his chest.  Her longing for her family, the ache of old grief, and something else, something distinctly vulnerable, had all been radiating from her. Not hugging her would have been impossible, and anyway, there was no-one else around to help with easing the homesickness that he’d sensed. Terrible planning, on her part.

Not that it had been a sensible decision on his part, either, of course.  

Stars, Maglor, she’d said, with horror in her voice, at the thought of his isolation, at over a century without being touched. And then his attempts to reassure her had no effect at all, as she leaned further into the hug, her hair tickling his cheek, despite his reminder that he was an Exile for a reason, and he really did deserve it. Even if he was supposed to be finding some way of making himself useful. 

Don’t pull away.

He’d caught the thought underneath easily, their minds still close together. Don’t punish yourself like this. Had also caught the concern, the entreating softness curling around the thought. She would have been more distressed if he had pulled away. And she needed to sleep. 

She had taken out her braid, and the irises in it. Her hair tumbled down her back, over the backs of his hands in coarse ringlets.

It felt good. Incredibly, ridiculously good.

Sea and stars, what am I doing ? 

Maglor took a deep breath, and decades of experience with younger relatives paid off. His shoulder moved with the breath, and Neniel stirred, lifting her head. She blinked away the sleep from her eyes, frowning as one hand came up to rub her forehead. 

“Oh.” 

Maglor snorted, withdrawing from the hug and pointedly rolling his shoulder. It felt fine, but the gesture would communicate enough, he hoped. Neniel inched back, and lay down on the sleeping mat. 

He went to stand to his feet, but Neniel’s fingers closed around his ankle, her skin cool to the touch. Loose enough that it was easily broken; a simple gesture of stay, rather than any serious attempt at restraint. 

“Where’re you going?” 

Her voice was thick with sleep still, and mildly confused. The effect was horribly, awfully endearing, and he found himself smiling again. 

“I–” I need to go, I need to think–

Maglor shook his head and thought about music. Ballads. Cheerful ballads that he had sung with Maitimo and Findekáno, under the sapphire skies of Valinor, ballads about the sky and swift horses and baying, loping hounds.  

“Oh,” Neniel said. She looked slightly more awake, now, as she released her grip. “Do you want company?” 

Maglor fought to keep his voice light. “No, I won’t be long. Go back to sleep.”

“Sure?”

“Very sure. Go back to sleep,” Maglor soothed. “You need to be rested for tomorrow.” 

The amused twist to her lips suggested that the shimmer of power in his voice hadn’t gone unnoticed, but Neniel was strong enough to fight if she didn’t want to be soothed, even half-awake as she was. “You win,” she agreed, lying back down.

“Sleep well,” Maglor told her, smiling at her, before he walked out of the bedroom, through the sitting room, and into the cool night air, stooping to duck through the doorways as he went. He sat on the verandah, and buried his head in his hands. 

They smelled like irises and lightning. 

Quietly, Maglor swore a steady stream of invective in a mélange of Quenya and Sindarin.

I’m far, far too old for this, he thought.

The words nearly made him laugh. So close to what Neniel had said to the leader on the boat that morning. And he’d meant it then. But it had been a long time, an incredibly long time, since he’d felt that particular bend in his thoughts, and the Sundering Sea stained red with blood stood between him now and the young Elf who had lived then. How perfectly ridiculous. 

He took a breath and fought down the panic, and the twist of homesickness and old grief that followed. I wish Nelyo was here. Not Maedhros, not the horror-wracked man he had become, as consumed by the Oath as Maglor. Nelyo, the older brother who had always had time to ruffle a little brother’s hair, and usually good words of advice that would fix whatever problem had arisen, accompanied by a certain amount of teasing. 

Maglor shook his head hard, shrugging old memory off, and forced himself to take another, slower, more even breath. 

Right. First things first. What needed to be done?

He slapped his hand against his leg as he thought. 

The positive of the situation was that the prospect of the feelings being mutual was roughly as distant as the Doors of Night. That was, admittedly, not a pleasant fact. It could even become painful. Still. He had practise at being in some degree of pain and saying nothing about it. 

So. Say nothing of it. And as best as he could, act as normal around her as he possibly could, until it passed. Shouldn’t be too tricky. He’d kept up convincing fronts of normality before, with the morale of many, many more Elves hanging in his hands. Fooling one woman couldn’t be that difficult. Right?

Particularly if he found something else to focus on. Music, perhaps, or thinking of where he would go next.

The river sang on, and Maglor got to his feet, walking back inside. Neniel shifted on the mat as he opened the door. He crossed the room to his mat, and moved his sleeping mat a few inches away, and then, reconsidering, shifted it back another two feet further away. No sense in tempting the Weaver any further. 

He lay down on the mat. He’d need all the wits he could muster.

---

“What are you going to say to them?” Eldest asked, as she handed her axe over. Neniel smiled, taking it from the woman. Eldest’s fingers were stiff, gnarled and worn with age, with mottles of spots against the flesh that had once been a pale brown. They closed around the pain reliever that her law-daughter had brewed for her that morning. 

“Honestly? I plan to say as little as I possibly can. Unless you think the boys would listen to an Elf?” 

Eldest’s eyes narrowed in thought, before she pulled a face. “Probably not. Sorry about that. For a minute, I thought your plan might be to get that not-husband of yours to glare and loom in the background.” 

Neniel choked on a laugh “You’re not serious!”

“Why not?” Eldest asked with a grin. “As lanky as he is, he might as well put it to good use.” 

Neniel shook her head. “Tempting, but Maglor would hate doing it.” 

“The children are likely ambush him and make him play for them. And with them, for that matter, if he’s not going with you. Will he be alright, or should I arrange for a rescue?” 

She shook her head again. “He had six brothers. He can handle children. Besides, he has to wake up at some point.” 

Eldest’s eyes darkened, catching the past tense. “That’s hard. About the brothers, I mean.” 

Neniel gave a tired nod. Eldest stood on her tiptoes to rest a hand on Neniel’s shoulder. “Give him time,” she said. “He’ll come around.” 

Neniel raised her eyebrows. “You sound so certain.” 

“I’ve lived a very long time,” Eldest said. “No winter lasts forever.” 

Neniel’s smile shrank, and she nodded. “Indeed. On that note, best I be going.”

She hefted the axe in her free hand, and started down the stairs. It doesn’t last forever, but it’s miserable while it lasts. 

The foresters were gathering several houses up, mulling in groups. There were about fifteen of them today. She had learned last night that only two of them had spearheaded the efforts to cut down the poplar saplings; a short man named Cyngen, and an even shorter boy who clung to his side like a shadow. Cyngen’s hair was blond, and his frame was strong and stocky. His eyes met hers, and very briefly, his features contorted from an arrogantly-raised eyebrow to a grimace. Stars and spiders, he’s young. Can’t be more than twenty cycles – no, I’m wrong again. Barely older than the boy who gave me the cornflower.

It was not her place to discipline a Mannish youngster in the first place; that would have to be left to Gwyriad, the leader of the foresters, and hopefully, her co-conspirator. But she couldn’t say nothing. 

She smiled at the foresters. “Good morning,” she said. “Are we all here?” 

Nods from the others. 

“What are you doing here?” Cyngen said. 

Well, give him credit for bluntness at least.

“I thought I’d come with you,” she said, still smiling at him. 

Cyngen snorted. “I thought Elves didn’t use wood. Don’t you sleep in the trees?” 

Her eyebrows rose, even as she kept the smile in place. It could have been worse. It could have been Banë. “I believe you may have been misinformed,” she said. At least about the not using wood part. He didn’t have to know that the sleeping in trees part was accurate.

“Really,” Cyngen said, and she held herself very still at the anger in his tone. “Just like we’re misinformed on how to harvest our own forests?” 

The first, tempting reaction was anger; the words that hovered on the tip of the tongue an icy retort of well, you are. But that would be a mistake, so she bit her tongue, and lowered the axe until its head was in the ground. She took a breath.

 “I’ve long held a deep respect for the way that you manage the forests.” Not the least because we developed those ways and taught them to your ancestors.

She must have kept the thought off her face, though, because Cyngen’s shoulders relaxed, even though his facial expression remained disdainful as he tilted his head up to look up at her.  

“Well. Good!” he said, apparently unable to think of a better response.

Gwyriad coughed, and she caught a look of amusement in his eyes, before he looked to the stands of the forest. His gnarled fingers were curled tightly around his axe. “Well! Shall we get started?” 

There was a chorus of agreements, and the men began to walk away from the river bank, moving towards the woods, speaking quietly among themselves as they did. Neniel found herself ignored by most of them, and spoke with Gwyriad. 

“The poplar stands re-grow in time, lass,” Gwyriad said, eyebrows drawing together in a scowl as she spoke of the problem. He walked slowly, carefully, with none of the easy, agile leaps of the younger men around them, but his voice was still steady. Still, if he couldn’t walk as far as the younger men on most days, that would explain how this problem had developed under his nose. Where was his heir? “They are not unlike other trees that way.” 

Neniel extended the hand that was not holding the axe, and flicked it palm up, then palm down. “Yes, they do grow back. Very fast and very quickly. In seven springs’, the poplar brings/warmth and light to all.”

Gwyriad grinned. “You remember.” 

“Of course. So, as the rhyme says, cutting down the poplars would not be a problem. But I fear I’ve failed to express the problem adequately.” She didn’t bother to keep the edge out of her voice. This problem should never have developed in the first place. “You see, Cyngen has been cutting down saplings.” 

Gwyriad’s eyes went wide.  “What?” 

Neniel nodded. “You see why I asked if we could go to those groves instead of the willows. Oh, some of it has been trees ready for the harvest. But plenty of it has been saplings as well, and the trees are furious.” She paused. “Which is not a problem for you now. But let it continue and–”

“It would still be wrong,” Gwyriad shook his head, and Neniel felt a surge of relief as he pitched his voice louder, meant to carry to Mannish ears. “We harvest at the times we do for a reason. The forest is not ours alone. It belongs to our children, our grand-children. We tend to our legacy here.” 

Most of the foresters stood a little taller, murmurs turning a little prouder; Cyngen looked un-moved, even as his friend shrank back slightly. Smart boy. His instincts were clearly informing him that something was going on, even if he didn’t know what exactly.

But why was Cyngen unmoved? He was younger than the other foresters, yes, but – oh. Too young. Not old enough to think of marriage yet, let alone to contemplate children, too young to don that lens that many Men required before they could begin properly planning. Harder to plan for something you would not live to see. 

…But if he could see it…

There. Right there. Yes, that would work. 

The rest of the walk to the poplar stands passed in silence, with Cyngen’s friend looking increasingly uncomfortable, and Cyngen and he exchanging whispers. Their gazes were boring into her back.

Be sensible, she was tempted to say. Do you think you can hide this? The men you work with are not fools. What were you thinking?

But that would be a mistake. It would simply aggravate his soon-to-be-injured pride. 

The poplar stand was ahead of them now, the crowns of the trees shining a brilliant green in the summer sunlight, and Cyngen and his friend had fallen back to the very edge of the group. Despite the lack of wind, the trees rustled, their anger and their grief proclaiming itself to the world at large. Five of the mature trees had been cut, but seven saplings had been cut as well, their stumps tiny by comparison to their elders. Neniel tapped Gwyriad on the shoulder, and glanced back towards Cyngen. His eyes narrowed and he nodded. 

“Cyngen! Hywel!  Why don’t you come over here?” Gwyriad called. Some of the foresters looked back, curious, and Cyngen paled, but walked forward, his hand on his friend’s shoulder. Hmm.

“Walk with me, lad,” Gwyriad said. “Is there anything I should know?” 

 Cyngen gulped, as Gywriad’s gaze bored into him. “I…I started on the poplar groves. Uncle Cynlas said that they were ready to be harvested, and the oaks are so much bigger, I just thought…” 

“It was my fault,” Hywel said quickly. “It wasn’t Cyngen’s idea, it was mine. We just started with the smaller ones.” 

“You started with the saplings,” Neniel corrected him, keeping her voice soft and icy. Enough! She took a deep breath. “You cut down trees that are not even grown to maturity yet. Is that how you wish to harvest the forest?” 

Hywel looked at her, incredulity in the way his forehead wrinkled. “The forest is bigger than a few poplars!” he protested. “We haven’t even cut down that many!” 

“You cut down enough that the woods are furious,” Neniel said. “The trees cooperate with your methods, because they know that they will live longer this way; because you have lived long enough in this forest that they care for you. But the trees are awake. They are not inanimate, not things. They are as able to feel pain as you and I! And when the saplings are cut down before they even have a chance to grow to their full strength, the trees are angered. Have you ever seen the river when it’s angry? Any force of the world when it is angry? Do you know what your people’s stories of the tree shepherds say?” 

Cyngen threw up his hands, even though Hywel’s face had paled as he looked at her. The scent of lightning was hanging thick in the air. “What’s a tree going to do?” Cyngen demanded. “They don’t move, I don’t care what the legends say!” 

Hywel grabbed his friend’s arm, alarm in his face now. “Don’t, don’t say anything more–”

Neniel gave them both a sharp-edged smile, letting part of the anger show through, like sunlight through a lens. Focussed, bright, and with the predictable result. “Come closer, Cyngen, Hywel. Gywriad, if you wouldn’t mind holding the men? Continuing to forest before we’ve spoken to the trees would be…unwise, now that you’ve seen the damage for yourself.” 

Cyngen’s arms crossed in defiance, and Gwyriad took a step forward. “If you want to keep foresting, lad, you’ll do as she says.” His voice was cold, and so were his eyes. Hywel looked paler than a corpse now, but he gave a hasty nod. 

Neniel reached for the boys’ hands and pulled them forward to the stump of the sapling, setting their hands on the little stump they had created. “Listen,” she ordered them curtly. She closed her eyes and took a breath, bracing herself against the keening, wailing song of the sapling. 

Cut before blooming, cut before growing, cut, cut, there was so much more light to soak–

Shaking, trembling, as the axe bit through the thin trunk, once, twice, three times– 

Severed, half of myself, half of myself, my limbs carted away– 

A bridge should span both sides, she thought, opening her eyes, and she sang the sapling’s pain to Cyngen. The boy’s eyes went wide and unfocussed, as he felt the aching, jarring wrongness, the wound on the heart of the grove, and the grief of the elder trees for the saplings cut down, as deep as the grief of parents for children.

Slowly, as she sang, Cyngen’s eyes became bright with tears, and his shoulders hunched forward. Hywel looked like he was going to be sick. She held the notes for a few moments longer, before letting them fade.

“That was–” Hywel attempted. 

She nodded. “The song of a sapling when it is cut before its maturity.” She forced herself to take another breath; for her hands to unclench. She stroked the stump, once, twice. “You see, the older trees know. They know that in part, they live longer because they are cut. But that does not make it pleasant. And for the saplings…well, do either of you have younger siblings?” 

A nauseated nod from Hywel.

“And how good are they at looking past present pain to the future?” She paused for a second, letting the point sink in. They are alive. They feel pain. You cannot be careless with them. “Do not do it again. And you should make sure to make amends. Plant some new seeds in the spring.” 

Hywel nodded shakily, and then he turned to the side, disappearing behind a birch. Cyngen’s tears had spilled over, but his nod was firmer. “We will,” he said, stepping back to go after his friend. “We never meant to…” 

To hurt anyone.

She let out a long sigh. Nodded at him in dismissal, and then began to sing again, threading her voice with power and strength, taking the tune from one of Regen’s lullabies. Eat the earth and drink deep; take the sunlight, go to sleep. Your wood shall recover, and so shall you. You shall live through this. 

Gwyriad’s hand was on her shoulder. “Lass?” 

She turned back, and nodded at him, raising her eyebrows as she continued to sing. 

“The mature ones are ready for harvesting this year. But I’m going to guess you think we should hold off?” 

She thought about it, and nodded. “Next spring. In the mean time, the stand of alders beyond this one might be ready?” 

Gwyriad clucked his tongue. “I don’t mind not living forever, but I find it very unfair that your people get that memory.” 

She chuckled, dusting her hands off. Hywel and Cyngen had reappeared, and Hywel was wiping out his mouth. His body was trembling, but his eyes were clear as they met hers. “Oh, so there’s no stories from your childhood you wish you could forget?” she asked Gwyriad. 

“…Well, there’s that, I suppose.” The flash in brown eyes that meant that the oblique reminder hadn't been lost on Gwyriad at all, before he raised his voice. “Come on, everyone. We’re going to the alders. Else we’ll be here past sunset with no wood.” 

There was a round of grumbles that swept through the foresters, and Neniel smiled at Gwyriad when he shot her a mock-despairing look.

“They’re your foresters,” she reminded him. “I’m just the guest.” 

Gwyriad’s mock-despairing look turned to a glare, and Neniel grinned. “I believe the expression is ‘burning daylight?’” 

---

Maglor flexed his fingers again from where they had begun to cramp, and smiled at the children, who were listening wide-eyed. I’ve gotten soft, he thought, a little amused at the irony. 

The children had massed on the verandah of the guest house, a small crowd of them there by late morning, when Maglor had woken up. He had combed his hair, swearing quietly at the tangles encountered, and then grabbed the harp, before stepping onto the verandah to greet them. There were worse ways to make one’s self useful than to entertain children, after all, and Neniel didn’t need his help today.

The afternoon had passed since that time with him sitting on one of the islets, not far from where many of the women were doing the washing, singing the Lay of Lúthien. He had offered to come and help, piecing together the scraps of phrases he had picked up the day before, but the women had laughed, and gestured to his harp. Apparently, he was more helpful keeping the youngest children occupied. Then again, considering some of the mischief that had occurred in his childhood when tasked with the laundry, that wasn’t all that surprising. Not to mention that if they were sitting by his feet, staring at the harp and the visions with wide eyes, then they were not wandering into the river, where they could be swept away by the current. 

Maglor took a breath, blinking away the afterimages of the song, and took a look around. Most of the clothes had been hung on the line strung between a young birch, and a sturdy alder, and most of the women seemed to have left. Oh. He looked up at the sun, and tried to estimate the time of it. Late afternoon, perhaps? 

He smiled at the children, and haltingly explained that it was perhaps time for them to go and find their families. There was reluctance to accept this, but after Maglor played his most persuasive card – that finding their families would likely mean finding dinner – most of them scattered, the younger ones into the little raft, with an older to accompany them, while the eldest ones launched into the water. Maglor set down the harp, and watched until the raft and the swimming children had made their way back to the banks, before sighing. 

I’ve stranded myself. 

Brilliant planning, as usual, he thought. 

Swimming was out of the question. It would damage the harp. Wait until someone spotted him, or Neniel came to find him?

Maglor pulled a face at the thought. Hardly the most appealing of options, but that seemed to be the best one.

Neniel is never going to let me live this one down. 

Well, so be it. That wasn’t a wholly bad thought. 

He continued to pluck at the harp-strings, legato notes that shimmered gold and silver. Neniel was more than fluent in Sindarin now, and she did not wish to stay among the Men long. So where would she go next? Straight to Mithlond?

If she’s going to Mithlond, do I go with her? 

Not into the city itself, obviously. But he had lingered north of Lindon, in the hazy centuries between the breaking of Thangorodrim and Elros’ death. Close enough that Elrond had been able to find him, and spend a few weeks with him, before  he had to return to his duties at Gil-Galad’s side. Maglor had left after that, believing quite firmly that Elrond was better off without such baggage in his life, without a Kinslayer judged unworthy of hallowed light. 

But now, he hesitated as he plucked the harp-strings. 

It…would be good, to see Elrond again. Even if he couldn’t, simply to give him a message. He would like to do that. Elwing and Eärendil leaving had been very hard on Elrond, and he and Maedhros had not done much better, after Thangorodrim’s breaking. Elrond deserved to have somebody around.

Oh, admit it, he told himself. The fact that Elrond deserved to have somebody around was only a small part of it. Elrond had multiple somebodies still in Middle-Earth, most of them still in Lindon. Gil-Galad. Círdan. Celeborn and Galadriel, from his mother’s side. Even Celebrimbor, if he needed somebody from the House of Fëanor for completeness’ sake. The greater part of the matter was that Maglor missed him, and Elros had passed forever beyond his reach, but he could still talk to Elrond. Sometimes. Provided that Elrond was ready to forgive him for leaving him twice, or three times, depending on how you counted it. 

So, going with Neniel, as far as Lindon, probably, and then getting a message to Elrond. But if Neniel was willing to teach him the water-mirror song, that could be done.

His fingers came away from the strings wet and bloody, and Maglor swore.

He walked over to the pool, trailing his fingers in the water, before closing his eyes and beginning to hum. Healing songs on yourself was never a pleasant sensation, but it was doable. Odd, that, considering all else that he’d done, he still had the ability to sing the cuts clean and closing over when he tried. But it was encouraging; as good a sign as Ossë’s hopeful advice, given months ago, or the fact that the burns from the Silmaril had scarred over last night.

As good a sign as Neniel falling asleep on you?

Dangerous thought. Best not to go there. He started humming an old ballad instead, one that Atar had liked to sing on long journeys, and had begun the chorus when– 

“Did you have a good day?” 

“Gah!” 

Maglor whirled, his dripping hands already going for his sword-hilt. He glared at her, and Neniel grinned back, her eyes alight with laughter, as she trod water, her head and shoulders clear of the river. Her hair was darkened by the water, fanning around her in a cloud in the grey of the river. “I’m not sure if that’s a ‘yes’ or a ‘no.’”

“It’s an objection to you sneaking up on me. As you know perfectly well by now.”  

“I wouldn’t call it sneaking,” she began, her eyes widening in injured innocence. 

“Of course you wouldn't,” Maglor said, unable to keep the sarcasm about of his voice. Neniel’s eyes were still laughing. Maglor sighed, shook his head, and tried valiantly not to smile. 

“Just tell me you’re not going to do that to Elrond, when you meet him? He’s been through enough without you playing with his reflexes.” 

“I’ll play nicely with your son, when I meet him,” she said, agreeably. Notably, any reassurance that she would play nicely with Maglor himself was absent. But considering how they had met, why was he surprised? “You still haven’t answered the question, though.” 

“All I ask,” Maglor said. He lost the battle, and smiled at her. “It was a good day. I slept through the morning, more or less, and woke up when there was a horde of children on the door-step. Ended up playing for them here.” Neniel looked very pleased. With himself for playing, or with herself for bringing him here? No, she wouldn’t congratulate herself over something like that. Did she set it up? That would explain the satisfied tilt to her smile. “You? How did the talk with the foresters go?” 

“It was two children,” Neniel said. “All that grief from the saplings and the forest, and it was just two children. Not even of age yet.” She sighed. “They won’t do it again. I think I may have scared one of them, a bit.” 

That…was not at all surprising, really. A river in flood was terrifying, and even a mild current could kill someone in the wrong place at the wrong time. Most would probably notice her smile, first, the air of summer-warmth and kindness that she carried with her, much as Finrod had always done. Easy to miss the power beneath, when she went to such trouble to charm people. Especially if you couldn’t smell the lightning.

And if you hadn’t raised two part-Maiar boys.

“What did you do?” he asked. 

“Glared and explained things in small pieces, mostly. But I had to do my cold stare.” Meaning that she’d probably looked at the hapless child like she was contemplating freezing him solid. “Then I translated what the sapling was singing. They were in tears by the end of it.” She paused. “Oh. And one of them threw up.” 

Maglor’s eyebrows shot up. “Do we owe Eldest an apology?” 

“No. They’re not, not scarred by it–”

“Traumatised. The word you are looking for is traumatised.” 

Neniel considered that, and nodded. “Not traumatised. Gwyriad thinks it was appropriate action, and–”

“Better shaken by you than by the Onodrim,” Maglor said. Although he was quite probably biased on the matter. Aegnor had spoken highly enough of the Onodrim, prior to the Dagor Bragollach. 

“At least as far as the forest is concerned, anyway,” Neniel agreed. 

“Are you really on speaking terms with the Onodrim?” 

“Fangorn keeps calling me hasty one. Which I could live with, if it weren’t for the fact that Uncle Ossë has started using the name too.” 

“Well, you are,” Maglor said, unable to keep his amusement out of his voice. “How long did it take you to move from my uncle is being an idiot to it’s my job to fix it? By my count, it was around ten minutes. No, less.” Her arm moved in a graceful arc, and Maglor lifted the harp onto his shoulder to avoid it getting wet, as a wave washed over his feet. “I don’t suppose you have any way of me getting back to the river bank with this dry?” he asked, jerking his chin at the harp. 

“The water would damage it?” 

“Quite horribly. And I’ve taken considerable pains to preserve it thus far.” 

“Hmm. I suppose an air bubble would do?” 

Maglor blinked. “I…you mean, trapping an air bubble around it?” 

She nodded. “Mam created it, when Ataro kept worrying about me drowning.” 

Maglor tilted his head to the side. “You’re the river-daughter. Why would you drown?” 

Another wave, splashing over his boots. He’d badger her into singing them dry later, but there were worse things to have on a warm summer’s day than cool feet. “It’s not like we are a common thing, half-Maiar. At least, we’re not in Middle-Earth. Are we common in Aman?” 

Maglor shook his head. “No, I didn’t know of any children of the Ainur and the Eldar in Aman. And given that Celegorm was my brother, my chances of knowing someone like that was better than most people’s.” Neniel raised an eyebrow in obvious confusion. “Celegorm rode in Oromë’s train, often enough. Did I not tell you?” 

“You don’t talk about your family often,” she pointed out. “Anyway. When I was born…nobody knew how it would go. One of the reasons people weren’t too happy about my parents marrying. But my parents are determined.” 

“Stubborn.” 

“Determined,” she said. A grin flashed across her face, fierce, bright, mesmerising, like sunlight dancing off water. “So, when I started diving underwater and not coming up long after every other diver had had to break the surface…well. After Ataro stopped being terrified, it made him sad, that he couldn’t join me and Mam. So we created a new charm. Helado’s even created necklaces with the charm in them.”

“Necklaces that allow you to breathe underwater?” The pearl divers of Alqualondë would be either horrified or delighted. Maglor wasn’t sure which. 

The grin reappeared, and Maglor swallowed. Oh, mûk. “Helado makes a lot of things. Clothing, mostly. He likes weaving and sewing best, but Tauren likes carving and carpentry. Both of them hate fishing. I think they bonded over it, actually.” She moved in the water so that she was floating on her back, and Maglor shut his eyes. 

A chuckle like water flowing over stone. “Are we back to this again?” 

Yes, we are. Bad enough when you fell asleep on me last night. I am not opening my eyes right now. 

“Alright, then, have it your way. I’ll get your harp back to the river bank, safe and dry, if you want me to do that. Then you can swim back.” 

Maglor’s nose wrinkled in distaste, but he nodded, knelt and held the harp out to her. Water rippled as she took it from him, and began to hum, and the air seemed to go still for a moment, before there was a soft splash. Maglor counted to thirty, and then opened his eyes. 

On the other side of the river, his harp sat on the bank, and Neniel stood beside it, yanking on a shirt. For a moment, Maglor’s mouth went dry.

Mûk. 

Well. At least the ‘act normal’ plan is working.  

…More or less, anyway.

 He dived into the water. It was cold, clear and bracing, driving all thought away like leaves before the force of a gale. The current was strong, and the river was deep, but Maglor had been living by the sea for centuries now, and he’d always been a decent swimmer. Although he was willing to bet that Neniel made him look like a child who had just barely learned to paddle. Shoals of fish swam past, as he broke through the surface for air and then dived under again, as he thought of nothing but the rhythm of stroking and kicking

He reached the bank about thirty yards downstream, and hauled himself onto the bank, grimacing at the feel of soaked clothing on his skin, before he took off the drenched boots and socks. 

Wordlessly, Neniel joined him, setting the harp down beside him, and helped him sing the water out of the clothes. It ran down out of the fabric in rivulets towards the river, and the fabric dried in short order. 

“Why don’t you ever do it?” he asked her, gesturing towards her, and then promptly wishing he hadn’t. Her hair was darkened by the water, and her clothes were clinging to her body. Droplets were still rolling down her face, her neck, her arms, making her skin gleam in the sunlight. Maglor forced his mind into multiplication tables instead. 

“Sing myself dry?” She shook her head. “I prefer being like this to being dry most of the time, honestly. You wouldn’t believe how many times Ataro had to scold me about drying off before coming in through the door.” She reached over, and rubbed his shirt sleeve between her fingers. “I think it’ll do. Don’t you?” 

He nodded, and began walking north towards the guest-house. “Did Eldest bring the pelts by?” 

“I suppose we’ll find out. Maglor?” 

“Yes?” 

“Where do you think we should go next?” 

Maglor looked at her, startled. “You’re asking me?” 

She pulled a face. “You won’t allow me to follow you if you leave. That doesn’t mean I can’t ask you for an opinion!” 

“True. Well, do you still want to go to Mithlond?” 

She nodded. “I…it’s changed. I think I have a better idea of what I’ll see, if I go there. But I think I need to go even more than I wanted to, when we last discussed it.” 

When they last discussed it, of course, had been before she heard the story in full, of how the house of Fëanor had helped their sworn enemy plunge the world of the Elves and Atani and Dwarves into incredible suffering. Maglor pushed the thought away, at the worried look in Neniel’s eyes. Apparently, she had decided to move past it, and he was not going to question her on that decision. 

It’s not too late to change the kind of song you sing.  

“Alright,” Maglor said. “Well. If we leave tomorrow, and travel at a reasonable pace…” he paused, and laughed at the irony. Over five centuries’ of navigating, commanding, and strategy and now… “Actually, I have no idea how soon you could get there. I barely have the faintest notion of where we are. You’re the one who navigated!” 

“And I barely know where Mithlond is!” she retorted.

“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” 

She shook her head. What a shocking oversight on his part. Why had he neglected something as obvious as that?

…Right. Because he’d been adamant that he was not getting involved, beyond allowing her to haunt his camp-site initially. And he’d continued to behave that way, even after ‘haunting his campsite’ had turned into singing in harmony, cooking side-by-side, and travelling together. 

“It’s on the northern shore of the Gulf of the Lune,” Maglor began. Neniel frowned, and rolled her right hand in a small circle: go on.“South of the Blue Mountains.” Her expression remained blank. Maglor tried to think. He’d come south to the banks of the Baranduin, towards the estuary. How had he done that? Elrond had found him...

Elrond had found him…not far from Himling, actually. And from there, after a few grief-filled weeks, Maglor had…

Mountains. Maglor had vanished into the mountain passes. He had set off east from there, east and south, and had followed the little streams and rivers south, the ones that ran to the Lune, but were small enough that they were easily forded, because crossing the Gulf would have required more theft, and Maglor hadn’t had the energy for that. And Elrond wouldn’t have liked it, anyway. He’d kept moving down through a wide, hilly country, and then when he’d looked at the water and recognised the Baranduin, he had simply kept following it south until he hit the estuary.

 And there, he’d stopped, confident that his son would not go as far afield as to search for him there. 

“You don’t know the Lune?” Maglor asked, because really, all of the reference points depended on that. It was also better than dwelling on the warmth he could feel slowly curling through his chest at the thought of seeing Elrond again, the warmth that felt dangerously like hope. 

Neniel frowned, rubbing at her hand. “Describe her? Mam has a lot of relatives.” 

“…I’ve never met her. I meant the river.” Neniel opened her mouth to object, and Maglor cut her off crossly. “You know what I mean.” 

Neniel shrugged. “Alright, then. So, for lack of more specific directions…west?” 

“West,” Maglor agreed. That much, he was quite certain of. “West and north.” It would be taking ‘back to first principles’ to a record low, but there was nothing to be done about it. 

“Hmm. Perhaps I’ll stop by my family’s along the way. Will you come?” 

Maglor hesitated. Agreeing was surely unwise. But disagreeing and returning to exile would be counterproductive to Ossë’s advice of changing the song. Neither option looked very good.

“If my presence causes trouble, I leave,” he told her. 

“Alright,” Neniel said. “We can leave tomorrow. I know the way back to the settlement very well, at least. We can work it out from there.” 

 

---

Chapter End Notes

Mûk: Shit, Quenya. Can't remember where I saw it. If it's inaccurate, please let me know.

Nelyo: Nelyafinwë Maitimo, aka Maedhros. 

A Good Day

Long conversations, little movement, and Maglor and Neniel have a good day. 

That's it. That's the chapter.

Read A Good Day

“Are you coming home?”

Her Ataro looked up at her through Maglor’s cooking pot, his head cocked to the side, birdlike. She sat at the base of an alder, the pot balanced on her lap, as Maglor knelt on the river-bank and filled the water-skins from the Snowgrey. The river-bed ran over pale, gleaming stones, turning the water a silvery-blue colour; it was cool as the mountains, even in heat of waxing summer. And with the smell of lightning hanging in the warm, humid air, the thickening before a summer storm, the cool water would be welcome.

“For a visit. We need to head west to go to Mithlond anyway. We’ve just crossed the Snowgrey right now.”

“Ah. Visiting the Men and Alado?”

“Yes, we needed to trade for some things. It went very well. And Alado gave me surprisingly good advice about something that was bothering me.”

 Her Ataro’s smile had a shade of concern to it. “Is it still bothering you?”

“No, it’s water flowed to the sea now,” she said, smiling back at him. I’m fine, Ataro. Really. She paused, and then reached through the water for her father’s mind. It was harder at this distance, even through the water, but not impossible. Does Maglor’s invitation still hold? 

Her Ataro nodded, and spoke aloud in reply. “If you wish to bring him. If I can call Ossë a brother, then I can have a Fëanorion as your guest.” He paused. “I’ll leave it to you to explain it to your aunt, though.”

Neniel thought of her Aunt’s likely reaction if she heard about burning the ships at Losgar, and winced. That…could be interesting. 

“Alright. We should be there by the time the Fading starts. We definitely won’t be there by Midsummer, though. There’s not enough time.”

Ataro’s smile blossomed across his face, before he gave a little hum of thought. “I’ll tell your mother. Do you want to talk to your sisters? They have missed you, Goldberry.”

Neniel took a deep breath, and nodded. “Are they angry?” 

“Tauren is. Regen is more confused, than anything, both at the fact that you left, and that you didn’t take her with you. Ráca and Tuilo understand, though. So does your Aunt.” 

Neniel frowned. “Regen’s thirty-five. She’s a little young to leave, isn’t she?”

“Thirty-five is the same age as when you snuck into the distilleries,” her Ataro reminded her. 

Neniel pulled a face. “Are you ever going to let me forget that?” It had not been one of her finer moments, put it bluntly.

“Certainly not. Nor the ‘my existence is a cage’ speech you gave me the next morning.” 

“I was hungover!” 

“And how it showed!” But there was a laugh in his voice, and his eyes were smiling. “I’ll go tell them.” 

Neniel nodded and took a deep breath, as her father walked out of the view of the basin, leaving the hangings of the house shining green and grey and blue in the sunlight. Regen was confused. Well, that wasn’t surprising, really. She’d been born after Neniel’s last trip away. And Tauren had known her to leave, but never as abruptly as she had that spring, never without saying goodbye. And she had never stayed away for seasons at a time, either. This trip would be the longest time she had spent away from home. She hadn’t even sent messages back, she’d been so preoccupied. 

“Is all well?” Maglor’s voice, rippling across the silence, speaking in Sindarin. She’d have to start teaching him Kindi, if he wanted to survive meeting her sisters and cousins with his mind intact. He wouldn’t be comfortable using osanwë with all of them, judging by the way that he had raised his defences again, wide doors that barred her from anything beyond amusement at how she had crossed the river that morning. She kept an eye out, but there weren’t circles under his eyes, and his sleep had not been disturbed by nightmares. Perhaps it was his grief for his lost brothers that he was hiding. 

His eyebrows were drawn into that familiar worried frown as he looked at her. But his cheekbones no longer protruded, and his hair was shining and silken, instead of limp, brittle and so tangled as to be matted, even if it only fell to his shoulders. He really has gotten a lot better. 

She sighed. “My sisters aren’t happy with me.”

Maglor raised his eyebrows. He capped the skins and walked up to her, sitting down beside her and pressing one of them into the skins into the crook of her arm. “Because you left?” 

She nodded.  Maglor’s lips pursed as he thought. 

“It’s good that they’ve been able to rely on you for so long,” he said. “But you are not just their sister. You have a life to live beyond being there for them, you know.”

“I know. I still feel guilty.” 

“Don’t,” Maglor advised. “I carry enough guilt for the both of us.” 

She rolled her eyes, turning to face him. “Your mistakes don’t erase mine, Maglor.”

“Well, perhaps they don’t,” Maglor conceded. She nudged him at that, because of course they didn’t, and because… 

Over a century without being touched by someone. How is he still sane?  

Maglor rolled his eyes, as he admitted: “It would be a strange world where they did. But you certainly shouldn’t feel guilty about wanting to explore the world and see new things! We’re Elves. It’s what we were made to do, Neniel.” 

“I’m not all an Elf,” she reminded him. Although admittedly, Maiar did move, even if most of the Maiar who hallowed the waters did not bother to do so much. And Dînen had worn the form of an Elf for so long that she had been altered by it, even as her love for her family had altered her.  

Maglor raised his eyebrows. “No, you’re the daughter of the river. And from where I’m standing, rivers do nothing but move.”

“Ha! Not all of the time!” she said, thinking about winters where the river iced over, where no matter how much she slept, she awoke exhausted, every inch of her body aching, and with tears trickling down her cheeks. “But I take your point.” 

“Neniellë!” 

Neniel turned back to the cooking pot, and smiled down at Regen’s wide, eager brown eyes, hoping that her smile wasn’t too obviously strained. Maglor leaned over to look down into the pot, his expression curious. “Hello, Regen,” she said. “How has the summer been?” 

“More boring without you! I’ve been working with the new strain of dogs, the ones for hunting that Arafen has been breeding. There was a new litter born last week,” Regen said, in one breath, and Neniel laughed. If nothing else had stayed the same, Regen still spoke at the same helter-skelter pace of a fearless child. She continued, speaking of the hounds, of the puppies, of how Mam had taught her the song for calling a breeze and strengthening moonlight the other night. “Wait, who is that with you? You didn’t say you were with someone! Is he your mate?”

Neniel shook her head, feeling a surge of exasperation. Why is everyone asking me that? 

Well, that wasn’t entirely fair. Neither Eldest’s husband nor Regen hadn’t even been born, when her relationship with Eilian had collapsed.  But still. That was not on her list of experiences to repeat anytime soon. 

“Regen, may I introduce you to my friend Maglor,” she said, in Kindi. Then, switching to Sindarin: “Maglor, this is my youngest sister, Regen.” 

Regen’s head tilted to the side, and she twirled a black-and-silver curl around her finger. “What’s wrong with your eyes?” she asked him. Neniel raised her eyebrows, and decided that she might as well translate the remark in its entirety. Prickly woman, indeed. 

Maglor’s smile was very bright, his mirth crinkling the corners of his eyes a little. “I am an Elf from over the sea, little one,” he said. “Most of us have eyes like this.” 

Oh, this would be fun. Neniel translated , and bit the inside of her lips when Regen’s brows crashed together in a frown. “I’m not that little!” 

Maglor glanced at Neniel, eyes still dancing. “I think I’m beginning to see the family resemblance.” 

Neniel wrinkled her nose at him, and Maglor laughed. Regen’s giggles chimed in too, as she caught the tone, if not the words, and Neniel smiled at her little sister. 

“Regen, is Tauren around?” Neniel asked. 

“Oh.” Regen looked away, chewing on her lip. She continued to play with her hair, but it was a nervous tugging on the ends now. “Um…she’s a little busy at the moment.” 

Busy. That meant that she was working on something that could easily be procrastinated, and was refusing to come to the mirror and speak.

“I see,” Neniel said, because it wasn’t fair for Regen to be in the middle of an argument between her two elder sisters. “Ráca?” 

“She went with Tuilo upstream to harvest the nettles. They said they’d be back by nightfall.” 

“How are they both?”

Regen shrugged. “Fine. Ráca’s been directing the hunts. That’s strange. She takes longer to do it, and we’re eating more fish. I don’t think she likes it.” 

“No,” Neniel agreed, her stomach twingeing with guilt. “I suppose she doesn’t.” Ráca was not able to sense the whereabouts of the prey in the forest by listening to the trees; she was skilled in sensing spirits, in hearing the faelinn of the animals, but it took more out of her, and she had less energy to burn than Neniel had to begin with. 

“Are you coming back soon?” Regen’s eyes were hopeful. “I missed you.” 

Neniel swallowed. “Soon,” she promised. “We’re on our way to come and see you now, you and the rest of the family. But I don’t know how long we’ll stay.” 

Regen flinched like she’d been struck. “You’re leaving again.” 

Neniel sighed. “Yes.” Had Ataro not mentioned it? Unless he’d taken the view that it was Neniel’s responsibility to explain her absence to her siblings. That…well, that would fit. 

“You’re leaving again.” Regen crossed her arms, and looked away, black-and-silver curls spilling over her shoulder. 

“Yes,” Neniel said. “I’ll stay in the village for a while. And then I’m going to go to Mithlond. It’s a city by the coast.” The location of which she wasn’t entirely certain about, but best not to mention that to Regen. And that was a problem that would need solving. 

The river burbled and sang on, of carp and dace schools, of the chill of the mountains and the sunlight on the surface. It would join the Greylady, and the Loudsinger, and their songs would mingle, the songs of the smaller rivers harmonising with and caught within the song of the greater Greylady, as they flowed out to the sea. Neniel sat a little straighter as a sudden thought struck her.

If it’s by the coast, Ossë will know it! Stars, I’m an idiot!

Later. For now, Regen was still staring up at her, with over-bright eyes. 

“Why?” 

Neniel sighed. “Because there is so much more than our river and our people, Regen. And I want to see it! I – for what, almost two thousand years? I’ve been at Ataro’s side, I’ve been–”

How could she even explain it? Hearing snatches of news on the breeze, of Denethor’s death, of the Battle of Beleriand. Of the songs of the currents and the oceans increasing in depth and volume, of the songs of the rivers changing and falling silent as Beleriand sunk, and not knowing, because none of them knew. Because it was not safe to go and find out. An imposed diet of half-knowledge, gained in snatches and gleans. She might not be a Tatya, but nobody could fail to be that curious. 

Her mother’s exasperation with her distraction that final day at the settlement had not been the reason why she left. It had simply made an already bubbling pot boil over, made her restlessness and her hurt mingle into something that had sent her running through the forest, south towards the coast, south towards her kinsmen whose domain touched every border of the earth. Who knew. 

“I’ve been in one place for so long,” Neniel said. “I’m…restless.” Regen’s eyes narrowed, and Neniel remembered the faraway, regretful look that Maglor’s eyes often took on. “I love you. Always. Nothing will ever change that! But…well, would you keep a tothû shut up in the house without exercise?” 

Regen shook her head. “You’re not a tothû, though.” 

“No, I’m not. But there is something inside of me that needs to see this new place, Regen. I need to do this.”

“Why?” 

Why? 

Curiosity. That simple, and that complicated, burning in her, the same impulse that had led to her sneaking up on Maglor by the estuary. She could have dived into the river and swam past him. She would not have even needed to come up for air. She could have disappeared into the forest, and walked out of the beach earlier. She had chosen to approach him, hearing the grief in his song, sensing a familiar darkness coiling around his spirit. The same numb emptiness that seemed as though it would never have an end. So she had paused, and sung a charm or two, and spoken with him, and when his identity had shone out as clear as a star in his mind…well, she’d wanted to hear the story, and his name had travelled on the breeze often enough.  

And then she had learned, in detail as vivid as that in the finest songs, that it was not one Elf who was so pained, but an entire world that had been shattered, like a child knocking over a pot and sending ceramic shards everywhere. 

How can I not go? How can I not see? If there is even a small way that I can be helpful…

The fact that Maglor had become a friend was part of it too, of course. She was curious to meet those he had called his friends, and those he had called his family. But also…

There would be an endless stream of questions, nagging at her, spilling past her lips the second she had a bottle of nanëni. Oh, she would be able to still smile at her friends, and dance with her sisters, and fish and hunt with her cousins. But the curiosity would always be a prickling presence at the edge of her mind, phrases like I wonder if and but how did that and why didn’t all rippling out into disparate streams of thought like a delta, each question begging for pursuit, for answers. As they had been begging for all these years. 

“Because if I do not go,” Neniel said, “then I’ll never know.” 

Regen looked away, biting on her lip as she thought. Neniel couldn’t quite suppress a smile at that; it seemed that that bad habit had stayed the same as well. 

“Fine,” Regen said. “But you’re taking me with you.” 

Neniel’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh? You’ve forgotten that that’s a decision for our parents, darling.” 

Maglor snorted abruptly, hiding his laugh behind one long-fingered hand. It was a wasted gesture, though. Mirth sparkled in storm-grey eyes, as though he was reminded of some secret joke. She’d have to get it out of him later. 

“I’m going with you,” Regen said, confidently, imperiously. 

“We’ll talk about it when I get home,” Neniel said. “And if I’m to see you by autumn, I should keep moving.” 

Regen smiled. “Alright. I love you.” 

“I love you too,” Neniel said. “We’ll see you soon.” 

She leaned forward and dashed her hand through the water, and the image of Regen’s face splintered, leaving nothing but the dark grey of the bottom of the cooking pot. Maglor’s eyes were still shining with laughter as he looked at her, although it had turned a little sad.

“What is it?” she asked. 

“For just a minute there…you sounded exactly like Maitimo, when one of us was about to do something stupid,” Maglor said. “The tone of your voice, the expression on your face. Káno, Findekáno, he learned do it as well, as the eldest of Fingolfin’s children.” 

She smiled, getting to her feet. “I’ve wondered if we would have gotten along, if we’d met. Elros, too.” 

Maglor smiled back. “You and Elros! Now that would have been a sight to see.” He held out his hands for the cooking pot, and she handed it over. For the first time, when he spoke of his lost son, there was joy amid the grief.

No winter lasts forever. Thank Ilúvatar, for wise old women, she thought, as Maglor emptied the cooking pot of water. 

“We would have gotten along well?” 

“Oh, I think so,” Maglor said, packing the pot away. His smile had softened. “I think so.” 

“Tell me about him,” she said. “Tell me about your family, and I’ll tell you about mine.” 

Maglor went silent and still for a moment, and Neniel wondered if she had made a mistake. He had told her about them, briefly, when he was telling her about the Noldolantë, but barely enough facts to make the names distinct, one from the other. 

“Well, there was one time,” Maglor began. The doors of his mind swung open, and she saw the memory shining there. Two beautiful faces, dark-haired and grey-eyed like Maglor, eyes alight with curiosity, cheeks still childishly round. “I was teaching them how to bake. They’re Noldorin, after all, through their grandmother, my cousin Idril. Did I tell you about Idril?” 

Neniel shook her head. “I’m not sure. You have a lot of cousins.”

“True,” Maglor accepted. “Idril was the daughter of my cousin Turgon, son of Fingolfin – why are you pulling that face?” 

“Were you related to half your city?” 

Maglor’s only response was in the skin around his eyes crinkling. “In Gondolin before its fall, Idril wed Tuor of the House of Hador, and they had a child, Eärendil. Eärendil later married Elwing when they fled Gondolin to the Havens of Sirion. That’s where Elrond and Elros were born.” 

“Elwing left,” Neniel said, frowning as they began walking west. The birds were singing, bright and cheerful, of good hunting and tasty grasshoppers and lizards and hatchlings growing swift and strong. The sunlight filtered weakly through the forest canopy, and the air of the forest was cooler.

 Why had she done it?

Eärendil’s logic of leaving to plead for help before the Valar, that made sense, although he’d have to have been very stubborn to try. Little good being there for your children when the death creeping forward was only a matter of time. But Elwing…why?

Maglor must have sensed her confusion, because he looked at her sadly. “She thought to draw our pursuit away from her people, I think. A brave plan.” 

Oh.

Oh.

Oh, what an unholy, nightmarish mess. 

“Alright,” Neniel said, deciding that the best thing to do was draw him back to the original starting point of the story. Spring comes after winter. It always does. “So, Elros and Elrond are Edain, and Sindarin and Noldorin.” And she’d thought her family tree was odd. “I’m half-expecting you to say they’re related to Denethor next!” 

Maglor shook his head, smiling. “No, to the best of my knowledge, there’s no Nandorin in them. But Elrond is, and Elros was, partially Noldorin through their grandmother Idril. And all Noldorin men learn to cook, and the women learn to bake. It’s a holdover from the days of the Journey. But my parents had seven sons, so Amil taught us how to bake as well.” 

Neniel tilted her head to the side in silent inquiry, raising her eyebrows. Maglor’s smile widened. “Atar did not believe in barring knowledge of any sort from anyone, no matter how arcane. Let alone something so practical as kitchen lessons. Anyway, Maedhros and I took the boys to Belegost, a few years after Sirion. A city of the Dwarves. They were about ten or so, old enough that it was time for many of their lessons to begin, and…it was something that I could give them. I thought we’d start with something simple, just with how to bake bread. But it had been a long time, so I had a tricky time remembering the exact measurements of what would be needed from the store-rooms, and revising the recipe. I came back to the kitchen to find Elrond and Elros both covered in flour,” and in his mind, she saw those two childish faces smeared with flour, cheeks turning pink with embarrassment, white streaks in their black hair, flour streaked all down the sleeves of their blue linen tunics. She felt the laughter bubble up in her throat as he continued: “covered in flour, and very reluctant to explain how any of it had happened. Cleaning that up took a while. Getting the story out of them took even longer.” 

“Oh, it could have been worse,” Neniel said, grinning back at him. “They could have gotten into the alcohol.” 

“Is that what you did, when your parents were teaching you? Get into the cooking wines?” 

“I don’t bake. But…well, I was thirty-five, thought myself very grown-up– yes, yes, go ahead,” she said, as Maglor tried to hide another smile behind his hand. “And the adults had been talking about the new mead. It was made of these yellow berries that grow in my forest, and honey. It’s much sweeter than the other kind of drink we make, and it had just finished fermenting. I was having a very bad night, and I wanted something, anything to make me feel better.” She paused, as Maglor’s look turned a little concerned. “And that’s how I ended up drinking two flasks of mead in about three hours,” she said, gesturing with her hands to indicate the size of the flasks. 

“Oh, no.” Despite his words, Maglor’s eyes were sparkling, and the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkling. If she kept this up, she might even be able to make him laugh. 

“Yes. I ended up talking to my fifteen-year old cousins about the impossibility of defining the word ‘impossible’, and almost sang up a fresh snowfall. Ataro and Aunt Salyë stopped me before there could be more than an inch or so of it, but…well, if you hear one of my family calling me ‘Goldberry’? That’s why.” 

That did it; Maglor’s chuckles burst out from behind his hands, like water spilling over a bowl. “Oh, stars. That’s a terrible nickname.” 

She grinned at him. “I’ve grown used to it from family. Did you never go and do something like that?” 

Maglor shook his head. “The closest I got to behaving like that was going off wandering around Valinor and singing for my supper. That was…well, considered mildly unconventional, for a prince, but Atar and Ammë said ‘go’, when I raised the idea with them.”

“Unconventional?” 

Maglor smiled. “Not the way something is usually done. As I was saying, I was considered mildly unconventional. My parents made a habit of twisting conventions, both minor and major, into abstract pieces of art.” 

Neniel eyed him dubiously. “You realise that raises many more questions than it answers, don’t you?” 

The explanation of abstract art took up the rest of the day as they walked, west and north towards her mother's river and her father's village, until the storm broke. The rain swept down through the branches, pounding on the leaves like drums, and Neniel laughed, turning her face up to catch the rain in her mouth. Thank you, Grandfather. Maglor had flicked the hood of his cloak up, but she felt a flicker of amusement from him, mixed with something softer, almost fond, and a tendril of worry and fear coiling about it.

She reached over and squeezed his hand – hush. I'm here, all is well – and his hand was stiff in hers for a moment, before he squeezed back.

“Neniel?” he said, eventually.

“Mm?”

“Thank you.”

He did not say what he was thanking her for, and she didn’t ask.

Instead, she looked over at him, and smiled. “I think that’s my line, actually.”

 

---

Chapter End Notes

We finally learn how Goldberry was called that! In Sindarin, it would sound like something like ‘glorpuig’, which is not the most elegant sounding name to my ear. And I can’t help but think that Maglor Fëanorion would definitely be noting the inherent musicality of a word. And we also got a glimpse into some of Goldberry’s motivations as a character. Sorry about the lack of action and movement otherwise in this chapter, but hey! Both of them actually seem pretty happy. So there’s something. 

Tothû: the dogs used by the Kindi when shifting from one place to another. Like a husky, really, but used to haul travois, instead of sleds. 

Nanëni: Kindi, burning water. Aka, vodka.

 

Walking the Tightrope

In which I indulge in world building, Neniel gets a reunion, and Maglor is puzzled.

Read Walking the Tightrope

 Maglor awoke, blinking in the moonlight, and breathing hard, as though he’d run very fast, rivers of fire still pouring through his mind. He sat up and leaned against the base of the oak, running his fingers over the bark, and forced his breathing into an even pattern. Twelve, twenty-four, thirty-fix, forty-eight, sixty, seventy-two, eighty-four, ninety-six… 

On the branch of the beech tree where she had fallen asleep, Neniel shifted, and sat up, looking down at him. Her hair had turned very pale in the moonlight. She leapt from the tree and landed in a crouch, coming over to sit beside him. 

“Are you here now?” she asked, in Sindarin.

He nodded. Probably, he ought to smile, but he was too tired for that. 

“Yes,” he croaked, reaching for the water skin. He drank a mouthful, trying to wash sour fear and pain and memories away. 

“Good.” 

When he set the skin down, she wrapped an arm around his shoulder, setting her head against his arm. She smelled like sunlight on water, the cool forest, and lightning, so different from the sulphurous fumes of Dagor Bragollach, and Maglor’s arm slid around her waist. 

In the two weeks since they had left the Men…well, Maglor had two hypotheses. The first was that she knew about his little dilemma, and was deliberately trying to drive him insane. It was possible.

 The second was that Neniel had decided that Maglor required several affectionate touches a day, and that it was her job to work to make up the deficit that his self-imposed exile had created. Given the immediate, unhesitating way she had healed the girl at the river settlement, and spoken for the saplings, and argued him into accepting the pelts for a new cloak, it was considerably more likely than the first. She had begun subtly, at first. Brushing her fingers against his when he handed her something. Insisting on teaching him how to weave crowns of flowers as they walked, and occasionally correcting his motions by placing her fingers on his. Nudging him playfully when he said something that she deemed terribly obvious. Then, a week or so ago, she’d reached over and squeezed his hand as they walked, and despite that being nothing new, Maglor’s heart had pounded as he waited for her to pull away. 

And she hadn’t. She had simply continued to hold his hand as they walked, as though there were nothing more reasonable or natural in the world, and begun to tell him stories of her cousins how to fish with otters, and call breezes, and how her attempt to teach them camp-fire songs had resulted in her and Ráca and Tuilo nearly setting her Uncle’s cup of nanëni on fire. Then when moon-rise had hit, she had wrapped her arms around him in a hug, leaning into his shoulder, before she stepped back, climbed into the branches of the tree and settled down to sleep. She’d done the same thing every night since, when they stopped to catch a few hours of sleep.

It shouldn’t have surprised him. On reflection, the horror in her voice, from the second he had said how long it had been since someone hugged him, had made this all but a certainty. Neniel could no sooner stop herself than the tide could stop rolling, than the rivers could run backwards. He didn’t know why it had taken him so long to see it, but Neniel had that same instinct that Elrond had always had. To soothe, to fix, to heal, to aid. Especially to people that she…

No.

Best not to go there. It wasn’t true, and he’d lost the right to comforting illusions a long time ago.  

“Still here?” Her fingers drummed against his shoulder. 

“Yes.” 

“Do you want to talk about it?” He shook his head. She nodded, and shifted; he withdrew his arm, and she patted the bedroll again. “Lie back down, Maglor. I’ll sing you to sleep.” 

“I’m not sure I want to sleep again,” Maglor said. That nightmare had been of Dagor Bragollach. It might get worse from there. It might be the Havens next. Or Menegroth. Or Alqualondë, for that matter. 

She shot him a worried look, and her teeth sank into her lower lip. “Alright. Shall we walk again?” 

Maglor shook his head. “Just because I can’t sleep is no reason for you to not sleep, Neniel.” He couldn’t keep the fondness from his voice, but that was alright. It was reasonable to be fond of someone, after you’d spent three months in their company. They’d grown on you, by then, as the Sindar of the north used to say. And being cold would just arouse even more concern from her. “I’ll go for a walk. Back by dawn. I’ll be fine.” 

“Will you?” 

“Yes,” Maglor told her, firmly. She didn’t look terribly convinced, but she made no motion to stop him, as he got to his feet. “You worry too much, you know.”

“You’re of the House of Finwë,” she said, a note of amusement in her voice. “And you're going to say that I worry too much?” 

“We did manage a few centuries in Valinor, you know, without finding trouble.” The House of Fëanor had once had a good record of avoiding major troubles. It was their record of creating and compounding trouble that was a bigger problem. 

“If you say so,” she said, walking back to her beech tree. “Wake me if you need me.” 

Not even if Dagor Dagorath begins, Neniel. 

“Sleep well,” Maglor said instead, making sure he had both sword and belt-knife. After a moment, he picked up the harp as well. Focussing on music, getting lost in melodies and rhythms, instead of things that couldn’t and probably shouldn’t be, sounded like a wonderful idea.

---

The forest thinned out as they walked the next day, and Neniel’s step had been quick, full of excitement as she walked. Maglor probed to make sure that he had all the relevant names, but she did not reply, and her eyes kept flitting over the trees with something that looked like wariness. 

“What is it?” he asked, at last.

She did not look at him, or reply aloud, but reached out to him in thought instead. Regen is trying to sneak up on us. 

Maglor blinked. Trying? He hadn’t been able to hear anyone.  

Trying, she confirmed, with a rush of amusement. And you wouldn’t. You’re very loud, after all. 

He pulled a face at her. Not all of us can flit through the woods like a shadow! 

She winked at him, and slung her pack off her shoulders, pressing it into his hands. If you keep walking and talking…

I’ll likely get lost, Maglor replied. 

Follow the flowers until you hit the river. But this shouldn’t take that long. And with that, Neniel reached up and gripped a low-lying branch of an oak, swinging herself up and then letting go of the branch. Her leap carried her a few feet further up, and she landed on the strong, sturdy branch of a rowan. Maglor started humming, slowing his pace, and studied the forest as he walked. 

Golden buttercups and bluebells pushed up through the soil in patches where spears of sunlight had run through the canopy. Follow the flowers. Where the wood had been cut and coppiced, Maglor realised, the sunlight had been able to reach down and bring up these patches of flowers. The clumps of bluebells and buttercups ran on, marking a kind of zig-zag path through the trees. So. The forest had been thinned, but not cleared, as the Elves living here struck a balance between the beauty of the flowers, the practicality of marking the way, and the simple need for wood. 

Well, that explained Neniel’s indignation about the saplings.

Maglor tilted his head, and heard a snatch of a startled cry. He pivoted, and saw Neniel laughing, pulling someone out into a patch of sunlight. Regen. Her skin was paler than Neniel’s, almost as pale as Maglor’s, and her nose was straight, instead of hooked. Her features were still soft like a child’s, even though she was clearly not far off her full height. She was rubbing at the lobe of her ear, her expression both disappointed and sheepish. She wore a long, loose dark green tunic, over grey leggings, brown deerskin shoes, and silver-streaked black hair was braided into a crown on her head, but tendrils of hair were coming loose from it. So going barefoot was not a universal custom among their people…perhaps it was simply personal preference, on Neniel’s part?

“Oh, come on! If you’re going to sneak up on us, you can hardly back out of meeting him now,” Neniel was saying, a teasing note in her voice. 

“I’m not backing out, Neniellë,” Regen said, but there was a flush to her cheeks that suggested that wasn’t entirely true. Maglor wondered if he was supposed to switch from using the Sindarin name. 

“Wonderful!” Neniel said, pulling her forward. “Regen, you remember my friend Maglor, don’t you?” 

Regen waved, and frowned, as though something had just occurred to her. Maglor waved back. “Hello! It’s nice to meet you, Regen.”

Regen looked at Neniel with wide, startled eyes. Neniel shrugged. “He’s very good at languages. I can’t tell you how annoying it is,” she continued, drawing her right arm around Regen and falling into step with Maglor, taking her pack from him and swinging it onto her free shoulder. “There I am, taking weeks to learn enough Sindarin to get by–”

Maglor snorted. 

“And there he is, picking up Kindi in days! It’s very unfair!” 

“You can do more than ‘get by’,” Maglor said, laughing. She was also omitting the fact that she had switched to speaking Kindi two weeks ago, using Sindarin only in the two nights where Maglor had woken up with nightmares, until Maglor had made the point that learning a new language was, if nothing else, very distracting. Then she’d redoubled the lessons.  “And of course I picked it up! Your sister’s a very merciless teacher, Regen.” 

“She is,” Regen agreed, with considerable feeling, and Neniel laughed.

“You can’t explore all the way to the Great-Lake-that-was if you refuse to skin your prey, Regen.” 

Regen’s nose wrinkled, and suddenly, despite the very different features, the resemblance between her and her much older sister was fully apparent. “Perhaps not. But still. The blood makes me feel sick.” 

Maglor glanced down at the bluebells, and tried to make himself take notice of the way their petals shone blue in the sunlight, rather than respond to that remark. Neniel made an exasperated noise in her throat, but didn’t respond either. 

“So what’s your solution, nettá?” 

“Simple,” Regen said. “I and the dogs will hunt the prey, and Arafen can skin them.”

Maglor smiled. “She’s got you there,” he told Neniel. 

“You are not being helpful,” she replied, mock-sternly, before she smiled down at her sister. “Alright, Regen. Tell me more about these pups you’re rearing.” 

Regen and Neniel chattered about the puppies for a good long while, and Maglor contented himself with listening to the teasing notes in their voices, and the way Regen leaned into her sister’s arm around her shoulder. There was a pause in the conversation for a while, with no sound but that of Maglor’s boots hitting the soil, until Regen asked: “Whose son are you?” 

Maglor blinked. “Pardon?”

The word slipped out, before his thoughts caught up. Of course, Regen, born among the Avari a mere thirty-five years ago, would have no reason to know the web of other names signified by Maglor. It was still a little startling, after finding himself one of the more notorious figures of the past age, for this inquiry to be raised. Even in Aman, only the very remotest communities of the Vanyar and the Noldor had not immediately recognised the names of Finwë’s grandchildren.

“Son of Nerdanel,” Neniel supplied.

Maglor blinked again. Well, it was true, but really… Was she attempting to cover for him? He didn’t deserve that.

“Son of Nerdanel,” he agreed. “And Fëanor of the Noldor.”  

“Nerdanelion,” Regen repeated, thoughtfully. “That’s a good name. Even for a deserter.” Neniel flicked Regen’s ear with a forefinger. “Ai!” 

“They came back,” Neniel told her. “And we can’t judge. We left the Lake too.” 

Maglor interrupted with, “I’m more commonly known as Fëanorion. Why…?” 

Regen shrugged at him. “Are you? We introduce our mothers first.” 

“They gave birth to us, after all,” Neniel chimed in. 

“But your fathers sired you,” Maglor said, his head swimming a little as he tried to take that in. Matrilineal. They identify according to the mother’s line, not the father’s. 

“And seeing as that’s the least painful part of the process, it’s right that our mother’s work should be honoured first,” Neniel said.

Well. Nearly impossible for a son of Fëanor – of Therindë’s line, Maglor thought, his mouth quirking up in a smile as he caught himself – to argue with that logic. Although whether Amil would want him to go around calling himself Nerdanelion after everything he'd done...

No. Best not to go there, either.

Although, if their tribe was organised according to matrilineal principles, perhaps that was why Neniel was not her father’s heir? Because Dînen was a Maia? 

“Fair point,” was all that Maglor said aloud, making a sheepish face, as they passed through the tree-line.

The banks of the Baranduin stood before them, and on this bank of the river and the other, Maglor could see long, low halls dotting the banks. There were dogs barking, nightingales trilling, and downstream, the sound of singing from the Elves on their boats, as they leaned out over the water. The banks were bare of cattails, unlike in the vision. How odd.  Had they harvested them? Whatever for? 

Neniel pointed to the other bank, and then turned to face the north. “Our house is that way.”  

Maglor eyed the wide waters warily, and then handed her the harp, before sitting down and stripping his boots and socks off. No need to repeat the mistakes that he’d made at the delta. And at least the waters were calm. Assuming that Dînen didn’t decide to drown him.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” Regen said, casually removing her own shoes.

“I’m afraid I can’t walk on water,” Maglor pointed out.

“We know.” She jerked her thumb at the tree-line they had just passed, and Maglor glanced back, frowning. He didn’t see how thathelped…

Neniel coughed, and pointed upwards. Maglor lifted his head, and oh. 

From high up the trunk of an oak tree, ropes ran across the river, until it met another oak, as like to the first as to be a twin there. The oak on the west bank stood between two of the long halls, and had clearly been planted there for exactly this purpose, long ago. Although, the longer Maglor looked, the more he realised that the ropes were deliberately spaced out so that multiple people could cross, one on the higher rope and one on the lower. The lowest rope was wrapped around the tree trunk at about four feet off the ground; the middle rope was at ten feet; the tallest rope soared above the other two at what must have been twenty feet off the ground.

“Just to be clear,” he said, keeping his voice neutral. “You’re saying that we’re going to walk across that rope?” 

Regen nodded, smiling brightly as she shoved her shoes into Neniel’s pack. 

“You could take the lowest one, if you wanted,” Neniel offered. “Although I think doing it in bare feet would be best, so don’t put your boots back on.” 

“I’m too tall to stand on the lowest rope,” Maglor said, shaking his head. “I’ll take the middle one. I suppose the lowest one is the one the elflings run across?” 

Neniel nodded, and held out her hand for his pack. Maglor frowned at her, and she rolled her eyes. “Oh, fine. Have it your way.” Regen had already walked up to the oak, and begun scrambling into the trees, until she balanced on a branch, and leapt down from it onto the highest rope. The rope swayed beneath the leap, and Regen stayed crouched on it, until it returned to its full tautness. Then she ran across, joyfully leaping up in the air and somersaulting, before landing crouched again, and then running across to the western oak. Neniel laughed at her sister’s antics, a delighted spark in her eye. 

“Showoff!” she shouted. 

Regen’s only response was sticking out her tongue. Maglor, after a long moment, took the harp back from her hands, and carefully stowed it in her pack, checking to make sure the flap was securely fastened. Neniel shook her head, her eyes crinkling at him, but she made no comment. 

“It won’t go in the river,” she promised, before she leapt up onto the lowest branch of the oak. “I can outdo Regen’s flip when I don’t have a pack on my back.” 

“I’m very relieved to hear it,” Maglor said, pushing away thoughts of unwise leaps, and broken bones. They were daughters of the river, for pity’s sake. It was hardly likely that falling into the water could harm them. Certainly not from that height. 

Neniel climbed into the oak tree with a liquid grace to her movement, and Maglor couldn’t quite suppress a sigh as she leapt onto the middle rope, rather than the tallest one. She sauntered across the river from there without seemingly the slightest visible effort, her eyes straight ahead, a joyful smile on her lips. It seemed unlikely that Maglor would manage his crossing with similar grace or dignity. But the harp was the only real thing of value he owned, and that was now safely in Neniel’s pack, as she leapt down to join her sister on the tree bough. That was something. He liked that harp. The preservation charms on it would not make it last beyond another century, and he intended to make good use of it before it finally crumpled and he had to resort to playing the flute. 

Caranthir would have hated this, and Ambarussa would have adored it. Maglor hauled himself into the oak tree’s branches and climbed, feeling very clumsy by comparison to the picture of lithe grace that Neniel had made minutes before. 

He landed on the middle rope in a crouch, as Neniel and Regen had done. The cord reverberated against his feet, vibrating; Maglor waited until it stilled, and then gingerly, cautiously rose to his feet. It didn’t take more than a few steps before he realised this was a terrible idea, and he fell into an awkward not-quite-crawl, wrapping his hands around the rope and carefully, gingerly moving forward across the rope. Neniel and Regen were exchanging frowning glances, and murmuring to each other, but he couldn’t make it out. That was just as well, actually, because he wasn’t more than halfway across the river, and falling into the next rope down would hurt quite a lot. 

After an eternity of careful concentration, he jumped off the rope and onto the tree-branch beside the sisters, his pack thumping against his back as he did. 

“I think part of it may have been the sword,” Neniel said, very casually. “Throwing off your balance.” 

Maglor tilted his head back, and studied her for a long moment. Was that supposed to be a hint? “Do you require me to disarm?” 

She shook her head, her braid swinging with the motion. “No. Ataro might, or maybe Aunt Salyë, but let’s face it. It’s not like you’re going to repeat all the events of – of the First Age in the next few days, is it?” 

“No,” he conceded. “But it would be understandable.”

“As she said, it’s a question for my husband and his sister.” 

The voice was a low, rich alto beneath them, every syllable of it like water flowing over stones. Neniel’s eyes went wide.

“Mam!” she said, and she leapt from the branch to the forest floor, flinging her arms around her mother. Dînen’s arms wrapped around her daughter, and when Neniel drew back from the embrace, she rested her forehead against Neniel’s for a long moment. Dînen’s low voice rang out again, speaking in the storm-syllables of Valarin, the tone of her voice impossible to decipher, and Regen sucked in her breath beside Maglor. Neniel stilled for a long moment, before she flung her arms around Dînen even tighter, and replied in the same language, her reply muffled against Dînen’s shoulder. Some dispute had been forgiven, perhaps? Whatever had been said, it made Regen relax visibly, the tension flowing out of her shoulders. She leapt down to join them, flinging herself into the hug. Neniel gave a laugh – was it more watery than normal? – and after a while, she wriggled out of the embrace, and glanced up at him, gesturing for him to join them with one hand. The other was brushing tears away from her eyes. 

“Mam, you remember Maglor,” she said, and her voice was very nearly even. 

“Yes, I do,” Dînen said. Her eyes were thoughtful as they scrutinised him, with none of the wariness that had been in them when they’d first met. “It comes to me that I was not entirely courteous to you, when we met, son of Fëanor and Nerdanel. I would apologise for that. It was badly done of me.” 

…That had not been on the list of expected possibilities. 

“There is nothing to apologise for,” Maglor said.

Her head tilted up. “Ah? You question my judgement regarding my own actions?” 

Maglor opened his mouth to object, before catching sight of the glint in Dînen’s eye. Slowly, he looked at Neniel. “I think I see where you get it from.” 

Neniel and Dînen both laughed, and Neniel threw an arm around him. “Come on, then!” 

The women spoke in Kindi as they walked back to the settlement, with Neniel pressing her mother for news of the settlement, and Dînen pressing her daughter for news of what she and Maglor had been doing. 

“Oh, this and that,” Neniel said casually. “Talked to Uncle Ossë and Aunt Uinen a bit, hunted a lot, learned a lot of songs. Apparently my Sindarin is now reasonable enough that I won’t be thrown out of Mithlond on my ear for some horrible mis-step.” 

Dînen’s glance was keen as she regarded her daughter. “So. That ripple a few weeks ago, with Ossë and Uinen. You had nothing to do with it, I take it?” 

Neniel smiled, her eyes wide and innocent, and all Maglor could think of was Irissë at the age of twenty-two, protesting that she had no idea at all how her circlet had ended up in the pond, how could her Amil even suggest that she'd thrown it in? “I spoke to Aunt Uinen about a few things. But surely her actions are her own?” 

Dînen laughed. “You can’t fool me with that face, daughter! But how on earth did you work it out? Their song had sounded like that since we descended.” 

Neniel jerked her thumb at Maglor, mask discarded in a moment. “As it turns out, what Ataro says is right. Nothing like a fresh pair of eyes.” 

Dînen smiled at him. “Well, then! It seems I owe you my thanks, for my kin’s happiness. And you have them.” She spoke out in Valarin again, and a breeze rustled around them, though Maglor did not think that she had called it. The water rippled, and Dînen held up a hand: be still. On the breeze, Maglor smelled molten metal. They forge things?

“What was that?” he asked, when at last the syllables stopped. Regen had already taken Neniel’s hand and pulled her over to the longhouse, and given a piercing whistle; several dogs and a dozen puppies were racing out of the house and snuffling at Neniel’s legs, barking and yipping joyfully. Their tails curled in on the back, like a curling, cresting wave, and their coats were brindle, red and brown.  Neniel laughed, and knelt, rubbing them behind their ears, and letting them shove their short, narrow muzzles into her hands. 

“Roughly translated…” Dînen paused, frowning, before she found the words. “May you always have a plentiful supply of fish, know which way the current flows, the waters aid you and never harm you, and may the next verse of your Song be happier than the last.”  

That was…oddly practical, for one of the Ainur. Perhaps living for thousands of years among the Elves was what made the difference?  

“Oh, we’re all practical, really,” Dînen said, and at least the question of where Neniel got her skill in osanwë was answered. “For by ‘practical’, you mean that we are concerned with the tangible stuff of Eä, yes? But we are more than concerned with it, we are bound to it and within it.  Our difficulty is learning of necessity. The Ainur are not very good at necessity. And then there’s the difficulty of how you Children measure necessity differently.” She shook her head. “But I’m getting carried away, and my daughters will scold me for listening to the Music instead of the events before us.”

That…had not occurred to Maglor before. But then…

The Ainur had sung the Music that created the world. They were immensely powerful. 

They are not very good at necessity.

What is need, to someone who has always been sufficient? Who has never known lack, of any kind?

There was a joyful cry from the hall, and two Elves running towards them; behind the running Elves, a couple paced, rather more sedately, hand in hand. The first Elf Maglor recognised was Nurwë, with his distinctive black-and-silver hair, and the dangling bone earrings. He waded into the crush of dogs, and picked Neniel up in a hug, spinning her around, as though she wasn’t at least as tall as he was. The second Elf was shorter than Nurwë, and dressed like Neniel; she carefully set her bow and her quiver aside, before she flung her arms around Neniel as well. Maglor thought that might be Ráca, given Neniel’s description of her. But she had two sisters, didn’t she? Where was the middle sister? 

The couple stepped forward, when Ráca eventually let go, and enfolded her in a brief embrace. The ellon had black hair that came to his shoulder-blades; the woman’s hung only a little further, and was a shining white colour, the same colour that many of the Teleri had. Tuilo and Sílena, then, Maglor thought. Had to be.  

Neniel looked around, and her voice carried very clearly to them, as Maglor and Dînen walked forward to join the knot of Elves and dogs. “Where’s Tauren? And Helado?” 

“In their work-shops,” Nurwë supplied, over the barking. “Regen! For pity’s sake, calm them.” Regen pulled a stubborn face, but knelt and began soothing the dogs to wagging, thumping tails and whines and yips, rather than more barking. “Helado is up to his elbows in dye, I’m afraid, and swearing at it. Tauren’s still unhappy with you.” 

Neniel sighed. “I’d best go talk to her, then.” She shrugged her pack off, and came back to Maglor, handing it to him. “Maglor, I’m leaving you in my father’s hands. Ataro, don’t break him. I’m going to go find Tauren.” 

“Don’t you break anything, either,” Nurwë told her. Neniel sighed. 

“I’m not promising anything,” she said, before she jogged up the river-bank. Maglor watched the play of light on her hair for a moment, before he felt Nurwë’s hand clap on his shoulder. 

“Come on! If you’ve inherited any of your grandfather’s skill, you can help Tuilo and I with the meal, and tell us everything.” His tone was not quite friendly, but he didn’t sound hostile, either.

Well, it’s a start. 

“I’d be delighted to,” Maglor told him, and he meant it. “Lead the way.” 

 

---

Chapter End Notes

Great-Lake-that-was: Cuiviénen dried up at some point, which in this canon, precipitated the Kindi leaving it and embarking on their own journey. 

The shoes among the Kindi are based on moccasins. I think some of the older Elves don’t wear them, because they think it’s somewhat pointless. Some of the younger Elves like them, though. 

Nettá: little one, Kindi, adapted from Sindarin ‘nethben.’ 

Mam: Gnomish, 'mother', still my best candidate. Subject to change, as soon as I figure out a better alternative.

The Kindi are more or less a matrilineal society. This is fairly vital for this plot to actually work, as it turns out, but inspired by the fact that in canon, it is Goldberry's /mother/ who forms the identifying part of her lineage. This is my explanation for that. =D 

The dogs that Regen has been working with are based off Akita Inus; I think she’s been training them to retrieve prey shot with bows. 

The banks of the Baranduin here are indeed the same ones that Maglor saw in his visions. But the cattails have been harvested for various food and clothing purposes. =-D Like making nanëni (vodka) from the roots. Thank you, bunn!

And everybody, throw some confetti, because we are OFFICIALLY CAUGHT UP ON CROSS-POSTING. 

 

Among the Kindi

So. Much. Kindi. Stuff. Or, the one where Maglor fries spiders, is grilled on events since Cuiviénen, and discovers something interesting about his host. 

Read Among the Kindi

They had erected the workshop not far from the settlement, but everybody had agreed that considering Helado’s approach to his craft, it was best for it to be further back in the forest. Most of the longhouses where the village lived were built along the river bank, stretching downriver to the water course narrowed like the tapering of a canoe, before broadening again. The point marked the southern boundary of the village, in so far as they had boundaries, and the beginnings of the fishing grounds; she remembered paddling out with her Ataro to that point in their canoe, otters chirruping in her lap, before she dived overboard with the otters and caught fish with them. But everyone in the village lived alongside the river-banks, to listen to the soothing rumble of her mother’s waters. 

That Tauren and Helado managed to work in the same work-shop was a mystery to most people in the village, considering Helado’s tendency to swear viciously at his work when the pigments did not match that of his imagination. Neniel had seen both of them work many times, though. When Tauren worked on a project, she fell into concentration so deep that it was doubtful that Grandfather Ulmo himself showing up would draw her from it. A little swearing next to that was nothing.

Helado’s clear tenor rang out, denouncing the lineage of the nettle plants, their origins, and their degree of relation to Morgoth. Neniel snorted, and unlatched the door of the longhouse, stepping in. Helado dealt better with interruptions, so his workshop was between the door and the screen that divided his work-space from Tauren’s.

“I’m fairly sure that’s anatomically impossible,” she said, crossing her arms, and waiting for Helado to turn from the large bucket that he is bent over. He straightened and whirled around, before beaming at her. 

“You have no imagination,” he said, before moving to hug her. It would mean that she’d have red dye streaked in her hair and on her vest; she leaned into the hug anyway.

“Is it going so badly?” she asked. 

Helado rocked his hand back and forth, thumb to the roof, to the ground, and back to the roof again. “It’ll get there.” 

“Right. Well, I need to talk to Tauren. There may be shouting. Hopefully not, though.” 

“Ah.” Helado’s eyes darkened, and he nodded, gesturing to the dividing screen. Interesting. So, while he wouldn’t speak against Tauren, he didn’t agree with whatever was bothering her. 

Well, only one way to find out. 

She stepped around the dividing screen and had to smile. Tauren sat on her work-bench, a pile of cut planks before her, her mouth pursed in concentration as she rubbed the river-reed stems over the length of wood in her lap. 

“What will that be?” Neniel asked her, coming to stand in front of her bench and to the side. Sunlight poked in through the poles of the roof of the work-shop, the steam of Helado’s dye shooting up to escape through the cracks. 

“A table,” Tauren said.

Neniel smiled. “The engravings look familiar. Like the things Galadriel’s people used.” 

“Mmm. Is that where you went? When you ran off without even saying goodbye?”  

Neniel counted to five. “I’m sorry about that. It was badly done of me,” she said. She heard the sound of retreating foot-steps, and felt a surge of relief, even as Tauren’s eyebrows crashed together in a thunderous frown. Helado shouldn’t have to hear this. 

Tauren stood, the length flying from her lap, and she whirled to face Neniel. “Yes. Yes, it was, Neniellë, it was rude, it caused a huge amount of stress for Ráca, you left! I – how could you do that? Just leave without saying goodbye, just run off like that?” 

Neniel snorted. “I haven’t been content here for a long time.” She bit her lip to keep a barb from about Tauren’s ignorance being caused by her obsession with her work, and turned it into, “I’m surprised you didn’t see it before.” That hit. Tauren’s eyes drifted from hers to the wall of the work-shop behind them, before turning back to Neniel. So. She had noticed, and she had put it out of her mind. 

“Why?” Tauren asked, her voice softening slightly. 

Neniel sighed. “It was time for me to go see the world,” she said. “I – how long can you last, without following through on an idea that you’ve had?” 

“That’s not a fair comparison.” 

Yes, it is. “Answer the question.” 

“Six days, seven?” 

Neniel resisted the temptation to cross her arms as she looked at her sister. Still so young, for all that she had her tattoos and a husband now. “I’ve been holding back on this for seven hundred years, Tauren,” she said, deliberately gentle.  

Tauren looked like she’d bitten into an apple only to find it rancid. There was silence for a few minutes, and Neniel forced herself to stay still, to keep her expression limited to a raised eyebrow. 

“Fine.” 

“Fine?”

“Fine,” Tauren said, setting the cuts of wood back on the bench. “I still don’t totally understand it, but if you need to do this…fine.” 

Neniel smiled at her, and opened her arms. “Does that mean I get my hug?” 

Tauren smiled back, and stepped forward into her arms, fitting her head underneath Neniel’s chin. “I’m glad you’re back, Neniellë.” 

“Me, too.” 

Tauren stepped back, and frowned. “You’re filthy. We can’t go home like this. Where’s that husband of mine? We need to clean off, first.” 

“He left to give us some privacy.” 

Tauren’s eyes went a little unfocussed as she reached for Helado through their marriage bond, and Neniel firmly squashed the pang of jealousy and longing that awoke. No point dwelling on what might have been, and now would not. All you could do was move on. 

“Alright,” Tauren said, slipping her hand into Neniel’s. “Let’s go.”

---

Nurwë led Maglor into the longhouse. It was divided into two areas, one for cooking and one for sleeping. Beside the left wall, illuminated by the sunlight, there was a fire pit, with two holes, one larger, and one smaller, smoke rising from the smaller hole and a fire already crackling cheerfully in the larger hole. In the coals of the fire, some kind of fish was baking. The roof was an interesting design, Maglor thought, looking up at it. Made of long, fired poles that had been bound together by strips of fabric, so that the sleeping area was darkened, and shafts of sunlight poured into the cooking area. No windows, or other forms of ventilation that he could see. Interesting. 

There were two benches, one underneath the other, as the ropes had been, the taller at such a height that someone could work at it without bending or stooping. It was held over the other bench by a combination of wooden slats and song, Maglor realised, given the way the slats shimmered with enchantment at the edges. Below it were an assortment of pots and pans, ceramic bowls and mugs. Tuilo had already walked to the bench and begun to peel the onions with methodical, deft flicks of his knife.

“Can you fry?” Nurwë asked, surveying the room, his head tilted to the side slightly. 

“Certainly. What needs frying?”  He wasn’t as good as Celegorm or Ambarussa, but he was passable. Fëanáro would have regarded it as horrifying, if one of his sons had not been able to do a duty as basic as cooking. 

Nurwë pointed to the large ceramic bowl on the top bench, before kneeling to pull something out from underneath the lower benches.

“That bowl of spiders. We’ve taken them off the ice, and they’re at the right temperature now, so now we just need to fry them up.”

Maglor blinked. Had he heard that correctly? 

“Spiders?” he asked, holding his palms together and making his fingers mimic the creeping motion. Nurwë nodded. 

“They’re Neniellë’s favourite. I’m quite fond of them as well,” Nurwë said. “The heads need to be removed first, though. Oh, and their legs should be spread out, they taste better that way. I suppose the Noldor prefer other insects?” 

Maglor swallowed, stepped over to the benches, and looked down into the bowl. About fifteen spiders, he realised, their legs curled up rather than spread out as in life, and almost impossible to estimate their size. Only superficially resembling the giant ones that he had fought in the forest. He firmly squashed the feelings of nausea and gingerly picked one up by the legs. Praise Eru and all his Ainur, it remained still in his hand. He drew his dagger and carefully made the legs extend to their fullest with the flat of the blade.

“I’m sorry, could you say that again?” he asked. 

Nurwë’s hand set a ceramic jar half-full of oil on the bench. 

“I said, do the Noldor prefer other insects to spiders?” 

Maglor finished spreading the spider legs out, and then beheaded it. Well. Alright, it was disgusting, but still, not as bad as their larger cousins in Taur-im-Duinath. Less messy, too. He still had no intention of eating them, though. “No, insects disappeared from our diet while we were on–” Maglor frowned, thinking hard, back to old history lessons. “Tol Eressëa? I think so.”

“Tol Eressëa?”

“Ulmo–” Maglor cast a cautious glance at Nurwë. The perspective of an Avar who had refused Oromë’s summons and yet married a Maia was still a thought that made his headache. But Nurwë did not look at all perturbed by the mention of the Vala, so Maglor continued. Neniel calls Ossë and Uinen Uncle and Aunt alike. Perhaps Ulmo isn’t as distant a figure to him? “Pulled up an island for the V- the Minyar, I mean, and the Tatyar, to ferry them across the Sea. Then he pulled it back for the Teleri, Olwë and his people, when they decided to leave Middle-Earth at last.” 

“Teleri?” Nurwë tilted his head to the side again, as he poured the oil into a large, deep saucepan, until the bottom inch of it was coated in oil. He reached for more jars, and another bowl, and began pouring and mixing with brisk, deft movements. “We had a word ‘tel at Cuiviénen. It meant last.” Maglor nodded. “Did they call themselves that?” 

“No, they called themselves the Lindar,” Maglor said. “Rightly so.” 

“Hmm. They didn’t take new names, then. Did the Minyar continue to call themselves that, in Aman?”

Maglor nodded. “We called them Vanyar, though. The Fair Elves.” 

Nurwë’s glance was amused, as he took the spider from Maglor and dropped it into the next bowl. “Of course you did. No Tatya was ever happy unless there were about a dozen words being invented at once.” Maglor thought about the controversy over the sá-sí, nights spent arguing in Telperion’s light, and beheaded the next spider, before straightening out the legs. “So, no insects. What did you eat instead?” 

Maglor frowned. “I’m not sure I know the Kindi for them,” he said, and he carefully took down one of the shields, letting images of old meals in Aman float across his mind, until Nurwë gave a satisfied nod and held up one hand, palm out. Thank you. No more. Maglor deliberately returned his gaze to the spider. 

“You were happy there?” It hovered between a question and a statement. The phrasing and the use of the particle suggested a question, but the tone suggested a statement. 

“For a time, we were very happy. But…” he shrugged. “We got restless, I suppose. Melkor’s release didn’t help matters.” 

“I heard of that, too,” Nurwë said with a frown. “Dînen was very unhappy and worried when it happened.” 

“He was not released back into Middle-Earth,” Maglor said, unable to keep his puzzlement off his face, beheading the next spider. Only two of the legs needed straightening.

Nurwë shook his head, earrings swinging with the movement, accepting the spider from Maglor’s hand.  “We never forgot those who had left the Lake. Never. And so when we heard, we worried for those of you who had left, trusting to hope in light. We did not part on good terms, many of us among the Nelyar. But family, kinsmen are not so easily cut from the heart that you can simply stop worrying about them.”

Maglor thought that opening his mouth at this point was very unwise. He beheaded two spiders instead, and straightened their legs. They’d clumped up so that their legs were against their abdomens. 

“Tch. You think I don’t know?” Nurwë asked, amusement still thick in his voice like honey, as he took the first spider. “Your cousin Galadriel spoke with me and my sister for a long time, when she and her people came to settle around the Lake. We have heard your deeds, or most of them.” His gaze was compassionate and steady as it held Maglor’s. “Do you know that your family is not the only one who has done so?” 

…

What?

Nurwë sighed, and wiped his hands on a rag, before running a hand through his hair. Another mannerism he had passed onto Neniel, it seemed. “We would not leave the waters we loved. We refused. And so, for a time, we dwelled there. It was difficult, but we loved it so. Until the waters shrank, and shrank, and shrank, the lake becoming ever smaller, food becoming ever scarcer. And we became ever more filled with fear. Though Melkor was chained in Mandos, then, his fear was on us. And so, on the other side of the sea, before you were even a light in your mother’s eyes, the Lindar, too, fought to the death.” Nurwë shook his head. “After that, Salyë and I went west, with some who chose to follow us, rather than stay and keep fighting. And it took me centuries to heal from that. To pass from shadow to something else.”

Maglor opened his mouth, and found that the words had gone away. “I hadn’t heard.” 

“Mm. It took Neniellë a while to make her peace with it, when she was young.” Nurwë took one of the spiders, drew a knife, and began beheading the spiders alongside Maglor. “But that’s done now, and she’s happy enough, these days. You seem to have been a good friend to her.” 

“As has she to me,” he returned. 

“Mmm.” There was laughter in Nurwë’s eyes as he glanced at Maglor. “Yes, I can tell. The fact that your clothes more or less fit you now is a good clue. So, tell me of these lands that she’s set on going to.” 

Maglor searched his memory for Elrond’s words about Mithlond and Lindon.  “Lindon lies beyond the mountains, on the coast between the Blue Mountains to the north and the seas. Mithlond is where the King of the Noldor in Middle-Earth, Ereinion Gil-Galad dwells. North of it is Harlond, the town of the Falathrim, the Lindar who follow Círdan the Shipwright. I think you’d know him, actually. He’s Unbegotten as well.” He probed back further into memory, back to Aman, back to history lessons taught in Laurelin’s light. “…Nowë, I think, was the name?” 

Nurwë’s eyes went wide, and he set down the knife. The last of the spiders was beheaded, and he dropped them into the pot.  “He’s still alive? Still here?” 

Maglor nodded. “North-west of here, past the mountains and over the Gulf of Lhûn. Still alive and well, when I last spoke with my – son.” Foster son. Hostage. Cousin. The phrase it’s complicated had never been so apt. 

Nurwë tilted his head to the side, clearly catching the hesitation, as he indicated the pot and a wooden spoon. “Adoptive?” 

“You could say that,” Maglor said, which was every word the strict truth, as he picked the spoon up. Nurwë had created some sort of batter that smelled like chestnuts and cattails, and had flung the spiders into the batter. He wondered what he’d used instead of eggs. “He’s a good man. Nowë, I mean.” 

Nurwë nodded. “I know. He always was.” Nurwë’s smile was soft and sad, eerily familiar. “One of my regrets is parting from him on such bad terms.” 

Maglor blinked. “Perhaps you could give Neniel a–” he searched for the Kindi word for ‘letter’, before blinking. Oh. Of course. “Message for him?” 

Nurwë gave him a thoughtful look, but nodded. “The Rider is gone beyond the void. Evil is not gone, but it seems a time for new things. New verses for the songs.” He peered at the batter over Maglor’s shoulder. “It’ll do,” he said, before he pulled two of the spiders about of the saucepan and dropped them into the wide skillet. 

The spiders looked very different covered in the batter. Almost, almost edible. But not quite, Maglor thought.

“Don’t worry,” Nurwë said. “You won’t have to eat them. Even if you dislike them, Neniellë would eat all of them, if let to it.” 

From where he had been burying the vegetables in the coals of the fire, Tuilo laughed. It was not musical, as Neniel’s, but a harsh, braying sound. “And then complain that if we’d told her, she would have gone and caught more!” 

Maglor huffed a laugh, as Nurwë put the last of the spiders in the frying pan on the fire. Tuilo rummaged around underneath the lower bench for a minute, before emerging with a bottle and with three ceramic cups. They were a dark blue colour, with delicate white spreading across the cups in patterns that were almost reminiscent of a lightning strike. He poured out a clear liquid into the mugs, and pressed one of them into Maglor’s hand. It looked rather like water, but didn’t smell like it, certainly not like the water of the Baranduin. Tuilo was making no motion to drink his cup, so Maglor waited with him, until Nurwë took the pan of spiders off the fire, and set it on the bench. They had turned a golden colour, the batter forming a crust on top of the body and legs. 

Nurwë took the cup from his nephew, and held his cup out. Tuilo clicked his cup against it, and Maglor followed suit. There was no toast. Perhaps that was a Noldorin invention. 

Maglor took a sip, and blinked. It was actually quite good. Cold and clear on his tongue, burning as it slid down his throat, with a smokey aftertaste; warmth spread up his feet into his legs. “This is nanëni, isn’t it?” 

 Nurwë grinned. “It certainly is. What do you think?” 

“It’s good,” Maglor said, taking another sip, and then setting it back down on the bench. No need to drink it all at once. Tuilo had downed his cup in a single swallow, but Nurwë seemed content to take it slowly.  

“I’m glad you think so. Now, tell me. Did Finwë ever get to build those mountain-tall buildings he was so insistent about?”

Maglor laughed, and for the first time in a long time, the memory of the Mindon Eldaliéva had joy to it. “Oh, yes,” he said. He wasn’t sure where Neniel’s pack had gotten to, but he hardly needed his harp for this. “Let me show you Finwë’s city. As it was once, I mean.” 

He sang Tirion upon Túna. The great rice terraces that had climbed from Túna’s base, running all the way to the walls of the city, and the bridge that ran over it to the gate of Tirion. The way the mingled light of the Trees had spilled down the Calacirya, shining brightly on the diamond dust of the streets. The different quarters: Fëanorion, Nolofinwion,  Arafinwion. His favourite park, on the northern side of the city, about a mile east of the Mindon Eldaliéva, where he would go when he needed to simply breathe, instead of listening to the noise generated by six brothers. His Grandfather’s palace, with its labyrinthine passages that had taken most of his childhood to learn to navigate. The Mindon Eldaliéva itself, spiralling towards the sky, proud and tall, with joy of the Noldor in their creation shimmering from the stonework itself. And Haru Finwë, sneaking a moment to himself on the roof of the tower, away from lords and princes and petitioners, his face turned towards the east, and Ezellohar. 

He left the song there, and looked up to meet Nurwë’s eyes. They were bright with his joy as he smiled at Maglor. 

“Thank you,” he said. “It is very good to hear more of Finwë and his deeds.” Nurwë took another gulp of the spirit, and nodded thoughtfully. “A difficult ending for the first verse of his song. But the second will be better than the first for it, I think.”

Pure speculation; there was none of the distant gaze that had accompanied Artanis, Arafinwë, Indis, or even his mother, when they Saw. But there was both hope and expectation in Nurwë’s voice, and to that hope…

“I’ll drink to that,” Maglor said, setting the harp down, in time to hear footsteps entering the hall. 

“Getting that dye off was a nightmare! What on earth have you been using for it, Helado?” Neniel’s voice rang out. Nurwë smiled, and stepped around the screen. Maglor thought it was woven of cattail stems as well. 

“Hibiscus roots and flowers, and – well, some other stuff.”

“No wonder you had to spend that long in the water,” came another voice. Similar in tone to Neniel’s, but lower and softer in pitch. “Alright, where is he?” 

“Wait, wait, hold on,” Neniel laughed. There was the sound of water splashing, and fabric rustling. “Alright. You can come say hello now, Maglor!” 

Well, at least she remembered, Maglor thought, setting the harp aside and finishing his cup of nanëni, before setting it on the bench and ducking around the screen. Neniel was indeed clothed; she had shrugged into a long blue-grey tunic, and a fresh pair of green leggings beneath it. Her face was bright with happiness, and Maglor glanced at the floor. Better that than staring like an adolescent. He was far, far too old for that.

Sleeping mats like those woven by the Minhiriathrim were scattered, all in the same room, with cushions at their heads for pillows. Neniel’s pack had been placed on a green mat closest to the wall. The cushion on the one directly adjacent to it was covered in dog fur. Regen, then. There was also a spear on the mat that adjoined Regen’s on the other side, plus a half-finished snare. There were two other sets of sleeping mats pushed together at other points in the room, one of the pair dyed in delicate patterns of green shading from light to dark – Helado’s, it had to be – and another that was plain, un-dyed nettle fabric. So…Married couples slept side-by-side, whilst the unmarried Elves bedded down together.

Neniel was moving forward to grab his hand and introduce him, he realised, returning from his study of the room. Tauren shared Neniel’s skin tone and her hooked nose, but her hair was black, and there was an awkward jerkiness to her movements that was very unlike her sister’s athletic coordination. 

“Hello,” she said, with a nod. Maglor waited for something else, and then only after a few moments’ silence, realised that nothing else would be forthcoming. Neniel had learned more of Nurwë’s easy manner, then. 

Well, he might be an exiled wanderer now, but having been a prince did teach some useful skills. Talking to people, for one. 

“Hello, Tauren,” he returned. “My name’s Maglor. Neniel’s told me a little bit about you.” A certain distracted look in the eye, and her leggings were covered in saw-dust. Well, if nothing else, that made finding a topic of conversation easy. “You work with wood, don’t you?” She nodded, looking a little taken aback. He pointed to the roof. “Tell me, why are the slats designed like that?” 

Some of the confidence returned to her stance as she launched into an explanation. Neniel’s eyes were warm when Maglor glanced at her, and her nod was approving. Regen was now coming up the path and entering through the door, and Dînen behind her, as well as another woman. 

“Ráca’s running a bit late, I’m afraid,” the third woman said, crossing to Neniel and dropping a quick kiss on her lips. Maglor blinked. He hadn’t seen anyone do that since Elemmírë had introduced him to her parents in Taniquetil. “Goldberry! Good to see you again!” 

“You too, Aunt,” Neniel said, hugging her tightly. Oh. So that was Salyë. Didn’t she have a husband? Sílena walked in through the back exit, studying the whirl of her family with an amused look in her eye. Maglor envied her serenity, as she walked over to Tuilo and his arm came up to encircle her. 

“Alright! The apples are done!” Nurwë called out. When had he vanished back into the kitchen? “Everybody come in!” There was another whirl of movement as everybody grabbed a cushion from the sleeping mats, and walked around the dividing screen into kitchen area. Neniel’s hand wrapped around his as she sensed his bewilderment, and she reached out with the laughing bubbling-brook of her mind: it’s alright, Maglor. If there was a little amusement to the thought…well, that was normal. 

The vegetables were baked soft, and pleasantly smoky on the tongue. The greatest proportion of the meal, though, was undoubtedly the eel. It was delicious; easily as good as anything that he’d eaten in Alqualondë. And, though he didn’t eat any, the way Neniel’s face lit up when Maglor passed her the bowl of fried spiders was, Maglor was astonished to find, almost entirely worth the trouble of beheading them all. 

…Oh, sweet stars of Varda.

He called to mind the Sea, endless, grey, and rolling, and flung that thought into it, before returning his attention to the conversations. There were about four going on simultaneously, which made it tricky, but Maglor caught the words “call” and meeting” and “why”, and thought that one might be the most important one. He swallowed the mouthful of eel, and listened intently. 

“Well, you’re not the only one who wants to go,” Ráca piped up, as she bit into a baked onion. “I keep dreaming of the sea. And I know you’re not the only one who’s curious.” 

“Oh, so that’s why we’ve been eating more fish,” Tuilo said, with an air of dawning comprehension. Ráca pulled a face at him – some extended joke between the siblings? – and their mother frowned at them both.

“You want to come with me?” Neniel asked, and her cousins’ attention swung to her. 

“I do,” Ráca said. “You’re right. If we don’t go, we’ll never know. And Mam and Uncle Nurwë were right too, to not let us go when the war was still going on. You can’t rescue someone else if you’re going to drown too.  Besides, I don’t think we’re the only ones who think this way.” 

“You’re definitely not!” Regen piped up, from where she was sitting beside Helado and Tauren. Ráca laughed. 

“I wasn’t actually talking about you, Regen.” Regen looked vaguely insulted at that, as though she had been dismissed as insignificant; Tauren nudged her in the ribs. Ráca began reeling off a list – names, Maglor realised quickly – and Neniel interrupted a once or twice with an incredulous repetition of the name. But only once or twice. “So, we could go,” Ráca said. She had finished the list, it seemed. “We wouldn’t even be alone. And there’d still be people who could oversee the hunts.” 

“You’re not giving it to me!” Salyë said. “I have enough on my plate.” 

“Banë could do it,” Neniel said. 

Nurwë’s cup hit the floor, and he picked it up with a curse; Dînen made a twisting gesture, paused halfway through it, and then reached for the nanëni bottle instead, refilling Nurwë’s cup. He smiled at her, pressed a quick kiss to her cheek, and then locked eyes with his daughter. 

“Banë,” Nurwë repeated, his voice neutral. 

Maglor sighed. Knowing that you were missing about four layers of context to everything was thoroughly exasperating. He had no idea how Neniel had exercised so much patience when dealing with him. 

It’s a gift, Dînen’s voice rippled in his mind. To answer your question – my daughter and Banë have detested each other since they were both old enough to toddle. She paused. Despite this, quite a few people have a betting pool on whether she’ll marry him. 

That kind of mutual hatred. Maglor felt a surge of jealousy move through him, took a deep breath, and then threw it into the Sea as well, where it was better off. 

“Look, I hate him,” Neniel said, and that gave no clues at all. Maglor eyed his cup of nanëni and took another sip, before setting it on the floor. “However, I have never been able to argue his competence in the hunt. He knows the woods very, very well, he knows how to speak with the trees, he knows where to find the game, and where they go. He’d do a good job.” Neniel paused, grimacing as though the words had left a bad taste in her mouth, and swallowed the rest of her cup of mead, before she pointed at Maglor’s. “Are you going to finish that?” Maglor shook his head, and she picked it up and began sipping on it. Her eyebrows rose, and she took another, longer swig. “This batch is very good, Sílena.” 

Sílena laughed, and lifted her cup. “I trust your judgement more than my own sometimes, so that’s good to hear!” She glanced up at her law-mother. “So, Mam. There’ll be a meeting soon?” 

“Yes, I think so,” Salyë said. “We’ll have to spread the word fast, of course, but best to get this done as quickly as possible. Probably a few nights from now. It’ll take a day to get word to everyone, and then we’ll have to meet.  We need to start planning for the winter, and we need the numbers to do that.” She took another bite of the eel and spoke again. “Of course, that just raises the question of who should raise it at the meeting.” 

“Neniellë,” Ráca said, “she’s the eldest – well, not counting you three,” she said, with a gesture to Nurwë, Salyë and Dînen, “but if you do it, it sends the wrong message entirely. Anyway, she’s been wanting to do this for ages.” 

“You,” Neniel countered, but there wasn’t much feeling behind it. “You’re Salyë’s daughter.” 

Ráca grinned at her. “Why do you think I’m not staying? Tuilo can be heir and lead, enough for the both of us. I’m not cut out for it. But you? You'd do a good job.” 

There was wonder in Neniel’s eyes, the look of someone who had been given a gift that she was certain would never be hers to receive. “Are you sure?” 

Her voice was very soft. 

Ráca nodded, and took another drink from her cup. “I am.” Her eyes didn’t move from Neniel’s. “Lead us to Mithlond, and I’ll go with you.”

Maglor pushed memories of Aman away, as the silence lingered. After a long moment, she pushed her hair behind her ear, and nodded. “Alright. I’ll raise it at the meeting. It’s been a while since we had a fuss.” 

“Now we just need to throw the meeting together,” Nurwë said dryly. “Dînen, would you speak to the fishermen?” 

As if on cue, the air filled with chatter and suggestions about who would go where and talk to whom. Neniel’s fingers found his, and she squeezed. 

Come with me? You don’t have to say anything, but…A nervous sort of anticipation from her, the kind of not-quite-fear that he had known before intense performances. He smiled at her. 

You’ll be fine. And of course I’ll come, Maglor sent back, more than a little amused, even as his pulse sped up. Where else would I go? 

A wordless rush of warmth, affection, amusement from her, the sound of lapping waters almost laughing now, as she rested their linked hands on his knee for a moment. Then she pulled her hand away and reached forward to snag the last spider.  

---

 Maglor made a valiant effort not to stare as Neniel stepped out into the centre of the massive hall.  The effort failed miserably. She was dressed in a yellow skirt that wrapped around her hips, and fell to her ankles; the yellow bodice was cut just beneath the curve of her breast, and ran upwards from there to be fastened around her neck, leaving the skin of her lower back and her belly bare. Her hair was braided into a crown, with white lilies in her hair.  

Neniel clapped her hands and began to play the drum, singing wordlessly, and then finding words, her voice carrying easily through the room. A time long lost in memory, when Elves danced by starlit waterfalls, until the waterfall fell silent. That first battle, and their flight west; the grief and despair that had taken many of them. And slowly, as they met with their kin, and found a place to rest, the long march of their people towards healing, of making their lives anew. 

The song shifted in tempo and tune, and many of the Kindi who had fallen silent and transfixed stirred uneasily, as the rhythm turned. Neniel’s song conjured images of the First Age: the winged dragons, the rivers of fire, the slow, inexorable sinking of Beleriand into the Sea. 

She looked at Maglor, and her eyes seemed almost apologetic. Forgive me, he heard her whisper. 

The song shifted again, fierce and fast and martial, and she translated his father’s boast into Kindi: through the darkness to the starlight. 

She stilled abruptly, and set the drum down. Silence fell as she rose to her feet again. 

“We have been here in the forest for over an Age, and we have healed from the wounds we have taken. But now our kinsmen stand, with their world torn apart from them. Shall we not go to them, and offer what we may? Even if it is only ourselves.” She shrugged. “I do not know what we will find. But I will stay here no longer. If any would come with me, speak now.” 

Ráca stepped forward, with hibiscus flowers in her hair, and a wide grin that was almost entirely natural on her face.

“I will!” 

“What of your mother, Salyeniel? What does she say?” came a voice from the crowd. 

Smoothly, as gracefully as though they’d rehearsed it, both cousins turned and walked to Salyë and dropped to their knees in front of her. Salyë rested her hands on both golden and black heads, and then spoke, her voice pitched to carry. 

“It is no betrayal of who we are to seek to offer what we may to a torn world. For this reason, the Lord of Waters did not desire that we should come to Valinor. I shall not go, and neither shall my brother. We are happy here by the river. But any who would go with my niece are free to go as it pleases you. But speak, and speak now.” 

There was the sound of a quick movement, and Regen broke from the knot of young Elves she had been standing with to race to her sister’s side. That seemed to be the cue for others to walk forward, slowly at first, and then moving faster. Ten, then twenty, then fifty, and finally seventy-five Elves stood around Neniel and Ráca. Neniel’s eyes had widened as the first ten people walked forward; her jaw had begun to slacken after twenty. And now, for the first time in the season he’d known her, he saw her look like she had been slapped silly. He reached out in thought to her, and tapped against her mind. If you’re not careful, the fireflies will fly in. 

Her jaw snapped shut abruptly. She nodded, and then turned to speak to the Elves. 

“We will not leave immediately. There is much we must find out before we go, and much to prepare. But for now…” Neniel paused, and then shrugged, and smiled. “For now, I think we’ve had far too little music tonight. And we have a guest among us who is very skilled in music. Maglor Nerdanelion! Will you play for us?” 

Maglor stood, and bowed, picking up his harp. At least this would be something for him to concentrate on, besides the sparkle in her eyes.

“It would be my pleasure,” he said. Singing of Aman might be unwise, considering that Regen had named him a deserter. Instead, he played the introduction and then began to sing one of the ballads of the Nandor, the rhythm made for dancing. The group of seventy-five collapsed, as the Kindi launched into the dance, and those who did not dance joined in on his theme. First one harmony grew on it, and then another, and then another, until there seemed to be as many harmonies dancing on the strength of his melody as there were flickering shapes in the fire at the centre of the hall.

 

---

Chapter End Notes

•   Notes: 

   

• I have no idea what Helado was saying to the dye. I’ll leave that to your imagination.
   
• The houses the Kindi live in are based on Iroquois longhouses, which, from my limited research, seem to have been roofed with poles that could be easily moved to admit sunlight or keep out rain. Given that, furniture built to be collapsible definitely seems like something the Elves would design. 
   
• Fried spiders are a delicacy in Cambodia, according to wiki, and I’ve already firmly headcanoned the Kindi as breeding spiders and producing spider silk. Gotta do something with them when they’re dead.
   
• On the Kindi as Kinslayers: I don’t see Elves as being inherently too good to do something like fight to the death. I’m a Noldor fan, for crying out loud. And tbh, I think impending starvation is one of those things that causes people to do things they wouldn’t otherwise do. 
   
• Nurwë as one of the Unbegotten: There were 72 Unbegotten Nelyar, besides Enel and Enelyë. So, how can Nurwë have a sister, if he’s Unbegotten? I’m kind of imagining that Salyë and he were always really close, and when the second generation of Elves were born, and brothers and sisters became an enshrined concept in Elven culture, they just started using that to describe their relationship. And now…well, I wouldn’t advise arguing that they’re not really brother and sister within their earshot. Like. Seriously. Don’t do that. Bad idea. 
   
• A note on the Kindi politics here: The society is organised matrilineally, and Neniel’s mother is a Maia. While she lives among the Kindi, and she is even regarded warmly by them now, after over a thousand years, she still holds no rank within the Kindi, which is why Ráca and Tuilo are senior in rank to Neniel. Ráca arguing for Neniel to raise the topic at the meeting means that she is handing leadership of the expedition to Neniel, and Neniel, for a long time, has been telling herself that it’s not like she’d be any good as a leader anyway, so it doesn’t really matter, if Ráca and Tuilo are the heirs.
  And now...*grins*. Even immortal Elves should get surprises, after all.
   
• Kindi formal costume! I am so excited to finally have a chance to talk about this. So, Neniel is essentially wearing a yellow halter top and a drape skirt, which is one of the older styles of formal gear, when the fashion for tattoo placement was down by the small of the back. Regen and Tauren on the other hand are both born after the Kindi have encountered Galadriel’s people, so their design is a little different, and looks more like a choli, with a circle of the upper back bared, and framing the tattoo within the circle.

Fading Summer

In which Maglor is supportive, and Neniel has a crisis of confidence, confides a secret, and finds a way. 

Read Fading Summer

Maglor swallowed the last piece of flatbread. Nurwë’s voice was bright and interested as he spoke to Regen, but his eyes continued to flick to the screen and the kitchen door of the longhouse. Dînen was asking Tauren and Helado about the progress with their projects. And Neniel’s absence was a near palpable thing beside him, the space where she should have been speaking with her siblings and teasing them, enjoying the time with her family. At last, they rose to clear the plates, and Maglor passed the bowls to Nurwë. 

“Where do you think she’s gone?” Maglor asked. 

Nurwë frowned. “There’s a stream that runs into the river by a willow grove. She’s likely there. I think she was startled by how many people decided to follow her lead last night.” He poured water into the skillets. “I should go to her.” 

Maglor frowned, and chose his words very carefully before he spoke. “I…am not sure that Neniel would tell you, if she was worried. You’re her father, after all.” 

Nurwë’s expression was pure confusion. “What do you mean?” 

Maglor looked at him for a long moment, and then comprehension dawned like the sunrise. He’s Unbegotten. And Dînen is a Maia! Neither of them know. No wonder there had been so much relief in her gaze, when she looked at him by the sea shore. How can two beings without parents understand how much… 

“She wants you to be proud of her,” Maglor said. “She wants to do a good job. For you to value her.” Nurwë’s eyebrows crashed together in a thunderous frown, and Maglor held out his hands, palm out, speaking quickly to forestall the explosion. “And of course you value her, and you are proud of her. That much is obvious. But…there is almost certainly a little voice in her head that is saying that she is going to do terribly at this, and that you are going to be disappointed.” Nurwë’s expression was softening, a little. “Let me try first. You’re the person she’s looked up to from her earliest moments. I’m just a friend.” My opinion matters much, much less. Even though he apparently had enough Fëanorion pride left that it felt like running nails down the blackboard of his fëa to admit that.  

Nurwë was silent for a while, before at last, a wry smile hovered at the corners of his mouth. “Twisty reasoning. But I think I understand it. Alright. Walk north-west beyond the last longhouse, and you should come to the stream; follow it west until you come to the willow grove.”

It must have been very lonely before her cousins were born, Maglor thought, and he left the longhouse. Atar had not been perfect, no, but he had keenly known the fear of having been a disappointment, and he had worked very hard to make sure his sons did not know the same fear. Even so, the insecurity had never entirely vanished, and Maglor had not been fully able to see the way it had lingered in himself until Elrond and Elros wriggled their way irreversibly under his skin and into his heart. It had to have been difficult, growing up with parents could never have understood that.

The summer sun was already streaming onto the river, and into the forest. Up ahead, he could smell the distinctive scent of molten metal, and on the river, canoes had already been pushed into the river; the fisher-Elves were singing a merry rhapsody, and Maglor listened with interest. It was a laughing tune, with the quick, pattering rhythm that many of the Kindi songs had. The harmony was wordless, but the melody was not, and the lyrics had been composed from the perspective of the river otter. The otter sang of his prowess in the river, of how nimbly and quickly he could dive through the waters, and of the different kinds of fish. An instructional rhyme, sung by children to learn the different kinds of prey, and by adults for the joy of passing it on. 

When the song had almost passed out of earshot, he came to a stream, and he glanced behind him, and ahead. No more longhouses. This must be the one, then. He turned west, searching with thought for the distinctive sense of lapping waters, and found her. 

She was sitting with her legs dangling in the stream, her back against a willow tree. She was not singing or kicking her legs back and forth, but she wasn’t listening to the currents, either. There was none of the trancelike stillness that marked her when she meditated. Instead, she had a water lily in her hands, and was shredding the petals off of it, one by one.  

He sat down beside her, and nudged her. “We missed you at breakfast.” 

“Mmm.” 

“What are you thinking about?” 

She swallowed, and picked another petal off the water lily. “They said they’d follow me.” 

Maglor nodded. “Yes…” 

She shook her head, something helpless in the movement, and worry flickered through him at the sight of it. Neniel was irrepressible, her spirit as light-filled and joyful as the sunlight playing on her hair. Maglor folded his hands together and set them in his lap. It reduced the chances of his doing something stupid.

“I – I just…” She snorted, and shook her head. “Stars, I feel like such a child now.” 

“Why?” 

She shrugged. “I was never going to be the heir. Never supposed to be the heir. Inheritance passes through the mother’s line, and my inheritance is…” she gestured at the world around her. “The stars, the waters, the otters, the fact that the world recognises me as a part of it, not just one who inhabits it. It bothered me when I was growing up, but I’d made my peace with it. And then I let Ráca hand the task of leading them over to me.” She shook her head. Blonde waves were tangled and knotted. “I’m wondering if it wasn’t a terrible mistake.”

In other words, she was frightened. 

Maglor shook his head, smiling. “You’ll be fine.” 

She glared. “Maglor.” Implicit was the reprimand at dismissing her so casually. Maglor shook his head again. He understood, he did, but…

“Neniel,” he returned, smiling at her. “Really. You’ll be fine.”

“You don’t know that!”

“No,” he admitted. “But they’ve chosen to follow you, Neniel. They all know you, you’ve grown up with them, and they’ve chosen you.  Don’t underestimate the power of that. And considering how much of leading is just talking people into things, or persuading them, I have every faith in you.” Her glance was questioning, and his smile widened. “Do I really need to mention your record of talking people into things?” 

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling now. “You think so?” 

“I’m certain,” Maglor said. He picked the petals up out of her hand and tossed them back into the water, before he pulled her up. “Come on, take me through it. What’s your plan for getting them to Mithlond?” 

“I thought I’d start by talking to my Uncle,” she said, falling into step with him. “If it’s by the coast, then Ossë will know where it is. And he told me once, when I was little, about teaching some of the Elves who left about how to make water craft.” 

“The Teleri,” Maglor said, with a nod and his heart twisting with an old, weary guilt as he remembered the swan-ships of Alqualondë. Neniel’s glance at him was uncomfortably perceptive – why was he even surprised by that anymore? How had he ever thought her naïve? – and she smiled, a touch sardonically. 

“Are you likely to do a repeat of Losgar?” 

“No! But…” Maglor hesitated, glancing down at his scarred palm. But I can never be as I was, either. Never be Makalaurë, the proud, talented fool of a prince who had sung with the Teleri on their ships in the pale light of Laurelin. Neniel caught the glance, and her gaze softened, mouth twisting apologetically, as her hand landed on his shoulder. Her fingers squeezed gently.

“Maglor?” 

He swallowed. “What was it you said last night? Through the darkness to the starlight?” 

She nodded, and Maglor let his hand come up to land on top of hers, his thumb moving over her knuckles. They stood like that for a while, the sunlight streaming down onto the river banks, the larks trilling in the trees, the cool touch of her hand on his shoulder a silent comfort. 

“It sounds like a good place to start,” he told her, finding his voice at last. The words came out much huskier than he had intended. 

She smiled at him. Apparently, she hadn’t noticed. “Come on, then.”

---

 The sight of Ossë, Dînen and Neniel all sitting cross-legged on the floor of the longhouse was…well, a little startling, frankly. But nonetheless, there they were, the two Maiar and the half-Elf, as Ossë’s webbed hands made sketches in the dirt of the coast-line, indicating the route that Neniel would have to take, if she wanted to sail to Mithlond. The map was very detailed as far as the coastline was concerned. It was just that after that, it got remarkably hazy. 

“So you’re saying there’s no way I’d be there before winter,” she said, frowning in thought.  

Ossë shook his head. “Not a chance. Even if Uinen and I tugged the currents to help, there’s still time building the boats, and it’s not a short distance.” 

Neniel sighed. “Just over a season, you say?” 

Ossë nodded. “At least. Possibly two seasons, if you set sail in the autumn.” 

Neniel’s frown deepened. “I don’t think it’ll be an easy winter this year. Will it?” she glanced at her mother questioningly, and Dînen shook her head. 

“No. I’ll probably be asleep for a third of it, at least.” 

Neniel nodded, and Maglor tried not to stare. Asleep. For a third of winter. How? Why? “So, sailing this year is not an option,” Neniel said. “We could wait until the spring, I suppose, but…” she turned to him with a frown. “You went came down from the north coast of Lindon by land. There has to be a land route, doesn’t there?” 

“I’m certain there is,” Maglor agreed. “I simply have no idea where.” 

Neniel sighed, staring at the dirt sketch gloomily. Then a thought occurred to her, and she blinked at her mother. “Are Galadriel’s people still up around the Lake?” 

Dînen’s eyes went hazy and unfocussed for a moment, before she nodded. “On the south shore.” 

Neniel nodded. “Alright. Time I paid them a visit, then. I’ll wait till next year if I have to, but not if there’s a better choice.” She rose, and kissed Ossë on the cheek. “Thank you for coming up-river, Uncle.” 

Ossë smiled, and scooped her up in a hug, before walking out the door of the longhouse. Seaweed robes fluttered as he moved, and webbed fingers moved in a graceful wave. “Valar favour you, nettá.” 

He walked into the river, and a moment later, the only sign of his having been there at all was bits of seaweed floating down the river. Neniel rubbed at her forehead, and Maglor rested a hand on her shoulder. Her hand left off rubbing at her forehead to land on his. Her skin was cool to the touch. 

“Go ahead,” she said, eyes half-closing, her face falling. She looked almost like she was steeling herself for a blow. “Ask.” 

Suddenly, the thought of answers was much less appealing. Still, he must have been his father’s son in some respects, because he asked. “Why are you so adamant that you must be in Mithlond before winter?” It wasn’t that it was a foolish decision. But Neniel’s grid for what was and was not a foolish decision usually looked quite different from a normal Elf’s. For it to match on this point, of all things…

Silence. Then, eventually: “I’m not well in winter.” The words were quiet, and not bitter, but only because they lacked bite or venom. It was resignation. “Some winters are better than others. Nearly all, I can push through. Sometimes, though…” She swallowed and shook her head again, braid swinging with the movement. “It’s one of the reasons why Ráca’s coming.” She held her mind open, and allowed him to see a familiar sense of numb hopelessness, of pain that would never stopped, of spiralling patterns of thought that only ever went downward. Only in her case it was intertwined with memories of freezing cold, and being nestled into her sleeping mother’s side, who would not, could not wake, no matter how much her daughter cried. 

Wisdom be damned, Maglor thought, a stone in his throat as he pulled her into a tight hug. Neniel didn’t seem to mind, judging by the way that she leaned into the touch. 

 “Either we get settled in Mithlond by the first frost, or I don’t leave till the spring,” she said. “That’s the way it will be this year.”  

Maglor hummed. “Even if you get your people settled by the first frost, it will be hard for them. It’s not easy coming to live among a new people, and they’ll be looking to you.” He rubbed a circle into her back. “Will you take my advice, if I give it?” 

“Maybe.” There was a spark of teasing in her eyes as she stepped back out of the hug. Not as merry or mirthful as it normally was, but he’d take it. “You swim with your clothes on. I’m not sure I should take your advice.” 

He snorted. “Stay here until the spring. Start teaching Thindarin to the people coming with you, rest, use the autumn to prepare what you’ll need for the journey. It will be easier because you won’t be improvising at every turn, and it will make it easier on your people, too. You might not come back for a long while. Let them have the winter with their families.” Take the time with yours. Dance with your cousins, cuddle with your sisters. 

She thought about it for a minute, and nodded. “I can see the logic in that. I’ll tell them soon. First, I should go and visit Galadriel. It’ll go over better if I can tell them we know where we’re going.” 

Maglor snorted. “There is that,” he admitted. 

“Do you want to come?” 

Did he want to come and see his cousin? It would have been tempting, if it weren’t for the fact that after Doriath and the Havens, the outcome would likely be a fifth Kinslaying. 

Maglor shook his head, managing a smile for her. “No, you go on ahead. Just tell me the news when you get back.” 

---

 She came back a little over a week later through the kitchen door, with two salmon dangling from her hands, kingfisher feathers in her hair,  and a luminous smile on her face. She set the salmon on the bench, and then sat down beside him, jostling the pelts as he stitched the bearskin to the nettle cloth that Helado had provided. Maglor set down the needles, as she opened up the otter-skin pack and unrolled a piece of paper. Maglor ran a hand over it, smoothing it out and weighting it down with the bottom of an empty bowl. The key of the map was written in a fair, unfamiliar hand in tengwar and in Sindarin, and below it, in a bottom-left corner was an unfamiliar woman’s sigil, a ring of silver flowers bordering a four-pointed golden star, set within a golden lozenge. It stretched from Lake Nenuial to the Kindi settlement, from the Baranduin to the coastline forming the east and west borders, the Lhûn running along the top edge of the sheet of paper before it dipped down into the Gulf.  

“Who gave you the map?” 

“Galadriel’s daughter, Celebrían.”  

Shock sluiced down his spine like ice. “Artanis has a child now?” 

She nodded. “Born about a century ago, I think. She’s lovely. She comes downriver and visits sometimes. But she spends a lot of time working on these.” Neniel frowned as her finger ran over the Lhûn. “So, this is the Lhûn. We’d have to go by Lake Nenuial, though, if we were going that way. It might be smarter to just take the dogs and the travois for provisions and cut across the downs, and go up to Mithlond that way. The hills and downs should make for good landmarks, and if we just walk until we hit the Lhûn, we shouldn’t get lost.” 

Maglor shook his head, pulling himself back into the present, and studied the map again. “A month to six weeks to travel over-land, if you stop to sleep regularly. And if you leave in the spring, that still leaves you all of summer and autumn there to get settled and get familiar with the city. You’ll need it.” 

Neniel’s glance was questioning, and Maglor smiled at her wryly. “You’ve never lived as a foreigner in someone else’s land, have you? There’s a kind of…” Stars. What was the appropriate metaphor to explain? 

He thought back to Aman, and elfling days, and the dizzy feeling that had once taken him as Maitimo and Finno once yanked a rug out from under him. He reached out and tapped with the memory. Her eyebrows rose. 

“You’re saying that we’re going to feel like we’ve fallen down when we go to Mithlond?” 

“Finrod and I agreed on a term for it, at Mereth Aderthad,” Maglor said. “We called it culture shock.” He shook his head. “The more time you can give your people, the better. Go in the spring, and cut across the downs. If you really want to build ships, I’m certain there’ll be plenty of time to do that. Círdan will probably be happy to help. ”

“Will you come?” 

That was the question, wasn’t it? 

Gil-galad would not have forgiven attacking the Host of the Valar, even if he had obeyed Ëonwë’s command to let Maedhros and Maglor go free. Even if he had, Mithlond held Sindar, and Noldor who had owed their allegiance to the House of Fingolfin and decided to stay in Middle-Earth, and Falathrim. They would, presumably, not be rejoicing for the last member of the Kinslaying Fëanorions to come forward and live among them, even if Gil-galad wished it.  

But eventually, Maglor shook his head. 

“I think if you and the other Kindi don’t talk about me much, then Gil-galad will probably not drag me in to be executed,” he said. Neniel swallowed abruptly, and Maglor winced, giving her hand an apologetic squeeze. “Sorry. But I won’t come with you to Mithlond. I might go into the caves of the Ered Luin, for the winter. It might be more comfortable than the beach near Himling.” 

She nodded. “A good plan. I’ll talk to everybody about it. It should be alright.” She paused. “Although, now that I think of it, I really should have given you a different name, when I was introducing you to the hall. Iarwain Ben-adar, maybe.” 

Maglor snorted. “Iarwain would rightly go to your father, and Salyë, and Círdan. And Lenwë, I suppose, if he’s still alive.” 

“You’re the eldest of the House of Finwë still in Middle-Earth,” she said. Maglor ignored this point. 

“And ben-adar is hardly how most would describe me.” Not when his entire fate had been decided by his grandfather, father, and the works of Fëanor’s hands…

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” she said, a sweet note in her voice that Maglor recognised from the final argument they’d had before he gave in and the pelts. “But – unless I misunderstood that entire section of Leithian – a false name is for avoiding recognition, is it not? For being inaccurate, in order to mislead others?” 

So this was how a rabbit felt when a trap sprang around his legs. “And so you argue me into a corner once again. Poor Gil-galad.” 

Her eyebrows rose, her head tilted to the side in birdlike curiosity. “Why poor Gil-galad?”

“Because he is going to have many more headaches next year,” Maglor said, and he yelped as Neniel’s fingers pinched at his ribs in swift retribution. “Ai! That was a compliment, I swear!” 

“Really,” Neniel drawled, unconvinced, and Maglor caught her wrists, laughing. 

“A compliment to your skills in an argument,” he said, and she did smile at that, wry and amused and perhaps a little pleased. 

“May the Valar save me from silver-tongued princes,” she said, and Maglor shook his head. Regardless of who his grandfather had been, he barely counted anymore. Although it was nice to know that he still had some skill at soothing ruffled feathers. 

“Oh, no. You’re definitely going to the wrong place if you want to avoid those.” Snorting with laughter again, he caught Neniel’s wrist once more as she went to flick him in the forehead, and she laughed as well, her eyes sparkling. 

“Alright. The overland route in the spring,” she said, eventually. 

Maglor nodded. “I think that’d be best.” 

---

Maglor had not felt this irritated for a long time, he thought, when Neniel said: “I’m thinking of calling him Iarwain ben-adar. It might cause a few less problems in Mithlond than Nerdanelion, and you know the Sindar don’t do as we do, they go by the father’s line. What do you think, Ataro?” 

She was sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor, deliberately staying out of his and Nurwë’s way, even as she carefully applied kingfisher feathers to another arrow. Maglor retrieved the jar of pickled vegetables, set it on the bench, and then turned and glared at her, folding his arms across his chest. Nurwë’s brow had wrinkled as he put the pieces together, before he glanced at Maglor, amusement in his eyes. 

“As another name? I approve,” Nurwë said, his eyes gleaming. “Eldest, indeed. Anyone would assume you were referring to one of my peers, and yet every word of it is accurate.”

“I do not approve,” Maglor put in, feeling more than a bit testy, as he grabbed the jar of pickled vegetables.

“I like it as well,” Dînen said, from beside Neniel, leaving off her conversation with the kingfisher on her arm. The kingfisher dropped the dead lizard it was holding to give a long, trilling call, as if also in agreeement. Maglor glared at it, too. 

“I’m already known among you as Maglor Nerdanelion.” Eru, it still felt strange for that to be the thing that he said. He’d never been ashamed of his mother, of course, but it had never seemed to define him in quite the same way that being a son of Fëanor had, even before Morgoth’s release. It was not Nerdanel, after all, who was the heir to Finwë Noldóran. The histories would have been unfathomably different, had she been. “Do you really think you can persuade seventy-five people to keep a secret?” 

…Well. The Kinslaying had been concealed for a time, now that he thought about it. Perhaps with the Enemy gone beyond the Void, a Kinslayer could also be concealed. 

“Possibly I could,” Neniel said, a distinctly mischievous smile lighting up her face as she applied the fish glue to another arrow. “If I’m as persuasive as you say I am. But I can definitely persuade enough people to tease you. Especially if you get that tetchy every time we call you it, O Iarwain. And soon enough, it’ll catch on, and they’ll forget they ever heard you called anything else. It’s not like you’ve spent a lot of time with anyone outside of the family.”

He shot her an icy glare, and then, with a slowly dawning feeling of horror, realised that he was helping prove her point. 

“You’re insane,” he told her.

“And yet-” she said, with a grin, as she applied the feathers to the shaft. “You followed me home anyway.” 

“You practically dragged me,” Maglor said, but it was a weak protest.  

“Oh, yes. Kicking and screaming. How could I forget?” 

Teaching her Sindarin had been a terrible idea. He’d have to figure out exactly where it ranked in the slew of terrible ideas he’d pursued throughout his life later. “How will you explain the joke? Its usefulness as a false name evaporates the moment you say ‘eldest of the House of Finwë.’” 

Her smile widened. “Oh, that’s easy. You kept calling me young, so I decided to tease you about your ancient, creaky bones, Iarwain.” 

“Creaky!” His outraged voice echoed off the walls of the longhouse. 

Neniel laughed, replaced the lid of the glue jar, and disappeared out the door of the longhouse. Before dawn the next day, it must have spread through the settlement, because Maglor found himself hailed by a cry of Iarwain in the early morning, followed by a playful invitation to join the fishermen on their canoes. He went with them. He had, after all, been advised to make himself useful, and they were pleasant enough company.

Ben-adar still grated on every last nerve he had, even if it had been technically true since before the Moon rose. But Maglor found himself answering to Iarwain without even a grimace by the time the leaves had carpeted the forest floor in red and gold. 

 

---

Chapter End Notes

Nettá: Kindi, little one.

Neniel's seasonal depression is something that greatly intrigues me, mostly because I was always startled by the fact that such a lively character as Goldberry seemed to just spend a great deal of time sitting in her chair in the winter, in the text. But whenever you have a hybrid, there's often a case of great strengths, but also particular quirks. In this case, I think Neniel inherited some of how her mother, as a Maia of a river, is bound to embody the seasons in a way. So just as rivers can freeze over in particularly cold winters, Dînen can hibernate. 

The sigil that Celebrían's map is marked with is based off the wonderful work by heget_squirrelwrangler. 

Iarwain Ben-Adar: the name that Elrond knows Tom Bombadil by. Translates to 'Eldest and Fatherless.' 

 

Winter Solstice

In which Neniel is depressed, Maglor frets, gifts are exchanged, and the Kindi celebrate the winter solstice. Warnings for a second-hand account of seasonal depression and profanity.

Read Winter Solstice

Winter fell over the Kindi settlement with soft blankets of snow, and even the Baranduin’s movement was more sluggish than usual. The whirlwind of work that autumn had generated – dismantling the buildings to set the rains, and flood the river; reassembling the buildings and all the furniture; pickling stores of vegetables and smoking and salting the meats – was done now. Now there was the indoor work: nets to be mended, cloth to be woven, gifts to be fashioned for Midwinter, animals to be fed. Every day at sunrise, Maglor would wake to the sound of Nurwë’s baritone rumbling with power, as he yanked the blankets off of Neniel, drawing her to her feet, into a hug. The sense of heaviness around her would ease as he sang. The sunlight seemed to help, as well. In the afternoons, she would often lie down at sunset; it would take her cousins and her siblings ordering, prodding and cajoling her for her to rise from her pallet and stick to the plan that she had made in the autumn, of meeting daily with the seventy, and working on their Sindarin. Every three days, Sílena and Ráca would walk into the longhouse in the early morning, take her hand, and they would vanish into the forest to run for hours at a time. She was better on those days, when she returned, with snow-flakes and spider-webs in her hair. She would smile and laugh in the evenings, even though it was obvious that she was not well, in the wan look of her face, the way that her smiles didn’t quite reach her eyes, in the way her clothes hung loose on her. Maglor found himself more worried than he had been in centuries.

That morning, on the day of the winter solstice, she’d eaten nothing at all, despite Regen's pestering. She had dressed with the heavy movements of somebody truly exhausted, had made no attempts at combing or braiding her hair, and had slipped out the door without even a terse word. Nurwë had gone after her, with brisk instructions to the rest of the household to ‘stop fretting and start eating, the bread will get cold.’ Maglor hadn’t challenged him on how he clearly had no intention of following his own advice. Hypocrisy of that kind was a father’s prerogative, if ever there was one.  

“She told me,” Maglor said to Regen, as they cleared the bowls away, as she kept shooting him uncomfortable, worried looks. Maglor could guess the cause. “It’s alright. I understand.”

Regen sighed, and rubbed at her forehead. “Well, that’s something.”

Maglor eyed her out of the corner of his eye as they rinsed the bowls. “She tried keeping it a secret from you?”

“No. She was so relieved that I didn’t have it too, that I wouldn’t have to go through it.” Regen’s smile was nearly as wry as her sister’s. “Neither Tauren or I have it. Emmá bound less of her power into us, and less of the weaknesses.” She jerked her chin to the screen, where behind it, Helado and Tauren were rousing Dînen from her weeks of sleep. “I don’t think I’m even as strong as you. But at least it’s not as bad as it used to be, before the Enemy was cast out.”

Maglor shook his head. “You’re very young, Regen, and I am very old. You’ll grow stronger. It takes time, to grow into gifts that your parents gave you.” Time, and practise. But Regen knew that, probably. “So neither you nor Tauren…”

Regen shook her head. “I get tired more easily, and sad more easily. But nothing like Neniellë. There’s – it’s like part of her just isn’t there, some winters, and all we can do is sing, and wait it out.” Her lower lip trembled; Maglor put an arm around her shoulder, and she leaned into the touch, her head resting against his ribs.

“She’s strong,” Maglor pointed out, but memory taunted him with Maedhros, with his spirit blazing white-hot in battle. Maedhros had been strong, too. Strength was not always enough.  “And she’s lived through it before. She’ll get through this.”

“I know,” Regen said, already pulling herself back together, and slipping her shoes on. Tough little thing. “I know.” She whistled for her dogs, and smiled up at him. “You’re right. It’ll get better after tonight.”

Despite the confidence in her tone, Maglor thought he’d feel considerably better if he kept an eye on Neniel that day. He finished putting the dishes away, and went in search of her.

---

He found her by the stream, looking somewhat less miserable than she had seemed at breakfast, but not well, either. Three otters were gathered around her, one curled over her bare feet, and the other nuzzling insistently at her hands. She looked up at him and managed a slight smile, but she made no motion to rise. The stream was frozen and the willow trees were bare, their grey trunks stooping and twisting and stark against the snow.

He sat down beside her.

“You don’t need to run after me as well,” she said. “Ataro already did that. I’m not about to drown myself in the water. Even if I could. You don’t have to worry about me.”

He nudged her, swallowing down the wash of fear that her words brought up. “I can’t just want your company?” he asked, deliberately keeping his voice light.

“I’m terrible company,” she snapped. “You know that.”

No, no, he didn’t. And he was quite sure that was his line, but he wasn’t sure saying so would be helpful. So, instead: “Hmph. You didn’t believe me when I said that to you. I don’t see why I should believe you now.”

Her hair was still knotted and tangled where it fell down to her thighs. She hadn’t trimmed it since the summer, when it had fallen to her hips. She might find that impractical for Mithlond.

“Because you’re much smarter than I am?”

“Really?” He kept his voice dry. “Everyone who lived through Beleriand begs to differ with you. Turn around.”

She glared, but eventually turned, without even asking why, the otters scattering at the movement and squeaking angry protests. Once they were assured that their lady was no longer going to move, they ran up onto her legs and her lap again, and purred loudly. In the summer, she would have asked him why, and Maglor would not be about to do this. But it was winter in Arda Marred, so Maglor drew the comb Helado had lent him out of his pocket, and started working on the knotted ends of Neniel’s hair.

He felt rather than saw the wince. “Sorry, Goldberry.” He rubbed at her shoulders in apology. It had been a very long time since he had had to comb anyone else’s hair, for it was an act reserved for family. But Maglor had slept on a sleeping mat in Nurwë’s longhouse for the past four months, in the same room as him, Dînen, Neniel and all her siblings. Why, exactly, he wasn’t sure. Perhaps for the sake of Finwë’s memory; perhaps it was simply because Nurwë thought Neniel would prefer having Maglor where she could keep an eye on him. All the same, though, he was glad to be considered family now. Combing her hair, singing to her, reaching out in thought…that was all he could do, really. The rest was up to her.

He’d worked through the knots at the ends of her hair and was up to the hair at her hips when she spoke.

“Maglor?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry. Thank you.” Her body had relaxed, shoulders dropping from their tense, irritated set. But now that irritation was gone, her tone was quiet and weary. She meant it, though, else she would not have scraped up the energy to say it.

“You’re welcome,” he told her. The glance she cast him over her shoulder was so tired, so very un-Neniel, that he swallowed and looked back at the knots in her hair, working his way up to the small of her back. If he kept meeting her eyes, the odds on him doing something stupid – well, stupider– were very, very short.

In hindsight, staying for the winter had been a terrible idea. He should have left earlier. But he had agreed to stay and leave with them in the spring. It had been a sensible plan, as far as logistics were concerned, and it wasn’t as though he had pressing business. But his attraction to her hadn’t passed at all, as he’d thought it would. Instead, it had deepened to something much deeper, much stronger.

It’s like having your heart walk around outside of your chest, Carnistir had said, when Makalaurë had asked him what being in love was like. If he ever saw Caranthir again, Maglor was going to apologise for…well, lots of things, including not doing a better job of looking after him, but also for having laughed when he had said that.

The situation hadn’t changed, though, even though his feelings had. Kinslayer. Possibly still bound to the Doom of the Noldor. Not really free of the Oath, although it slept. All reasons why it was a very good thing that it was unrequited.

If she were well, she would almost have certainly sensed the turn of his thought. But she was not, so Maglor went deep into wells of memory, pulled the comb through her hair, and began to sing in Quenya, a hymn to Vána and Yavanna, the queens of spring and earth, and of the renewal of all things green and growing, repeating the song until her hair fell down her back, waves shining in the weak winter sunlight.

She was trembling, he realized, when he returned from the memory. He walked around her and knelt in the snow in front of her; she was crying, silent sobs that made her frame shake. She hadn’t cried all winter, and Maglor felt a surge of relief at the sight.

He pulled the otters off of her lap, ignoring the scratches they dealt him in the process, pulled her to her feet and into his arms, and continued to sing the whole while. He sang until her sobs finally slowed to hiccups. His shoulder was damp now, and his eyes were burning, too.

“They are whole, they are whole,” she hiccupped into his shoulder. “The Valar are whole, the Maiar are whole, why am I not whole?”

Relief vanished like mist in the morning. Sea and stars, I’m a fool! “Shh,” he whispered into her hair. “Shhh, Goldberry. It will be alright.”

“You don’t know that!” Her fingers clenched in his shirt.

He tightened his grip around her waist. “What does the Song tell you?”

She was silent for a while, as the hiccups finally stopped. He leaned his chin on the top of her head. Her hands relaxed their grip on his shirt, slowly, as she spoke, her voice still thick from her tears. “That spring comes after winter. That my mother will wake again.”

“And?”

“That this ice will break in the spring. But it will come back. Again, and again, and again.”

“And it will melt and break again,” Maglor said, backing the words with power. “Is the sunrise any less beautiful because it gives way to sunset? Are the stars less beautiful for the darkness between each of them?”  

She sighed, and did not say anything for a long time, before she gave a quiet, exhausted, reluctant, “No.”

“I couldn’t hear you,” he said. “Say that again?” 

“You fucking could.”

Another thing that had startled him, when winter had first settled on them. Neniel had rarely chosen to swear in their time together before. He switched tactics.

 “Could I?” he asked her. “Iarwain, remember. I’m as old as the leaves, and the breeze, and the trees, old as the trees, and twice as creaky. I might have lost my hearing, too, in my old age. You never know.”

That worked; she gave a laugh against his neck, tired, but a laugh nonetheless, before she stepped up out of the hug and smiled up at him. Her eyes were red, the skin below them puffy, but the smile was sincere, the first smile that had reached her eyes since the end of autumn.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go back. We need to get things ready for tonight.”

“So we do,” she admitted, falling into step beside him. “Maglor?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry. For…everything. Thank you.”

Reminding her that she had nothing to apologise for, that it wasn’t her fault, that she was no burden, would do no good. In fact, Maglor could think of nothing else he could say that would do any more good. So instead, he reached over and held her hand, as they left the frozen stream and bare willows behind them, and walked back to the longhouse. 

---

There was an order to that day, Nurwë had explained to him. The meal, the gift-giving within the families, done in order of seniority by age, and before they would go down to the massive bonfire erected in a clearing in the eastern bank of the forest. Maglor was very thankful that Nurwë had pulled him aside at the end of autumn, and given him ample warning about the gifts, though. It had given him time to think properly about it, and figure out what was and was not appropriate. And so, after a brief argument between him and Neniel, where they tried to settle the differences between Years of the Trees and Years of Starlight, Maglor presented his gifts.

 For Nurwë and Salyë, a song that he had written as he walked in old memory through a similar celebration in Valmar, with special attention paid to those Eldar who had awoken at Cuiviénen, including Ingwë, Finwë and Indis. For Dînen, a circlet of blackbird feathers that he had collected and stitched together, and sung over to make sure the feathers stayed black. Dînen received it with a delighted smile, and he knew he had struck true. For Regen, a new flute that he had carved; for Tauren, river-reeds woven into a new block so tightly that they should sand and polish with the same ease as clay and sandpaper, and with a strap of nettle cloth sewn into it to function as a handle.  Helado had taken a bit more thought, for he had all the materials and plants that he needed, but Maglor had eventually settled on a soft pair of new shoes that he had traded for two rather large eels. For Ráca, a carving of a wolf, its tail curling around its side, and its nose pointed up as though howling to Tilion. So far, all of the gifts had been received with grateful murmurs and smiles. Regen had even hugged him.

Stop procrastinating, he told himself, and he met Neniel’s eyes. Her head was tilted to the side, and her smile was more than a little strained, but it was a smile nonetheless. He handed her gift over to her, and she turned it over in her palm with a thoughtful look on her face.

Jewellery was traditional, for this situation. Even though he knew it was a hopeless case, even though he was no longer Makalaurë to craft fine chains of gold and silver, his heart had overruled his pragmatism once more. His hair had grown considerably since he cut it in the spring; he had cut several locks off, and woven them together until they formed a braid as thick as a strand of yarn. He had considered carving the pendant into the shape of a water lily, but that had quickly proven far too ambitious. So instead, he had settled for etching a design of a water lily into the small, tear-drop shaped pendant, and going over the etching with the white paint that he had borrowed from Helado. Finally, he had sung over it, and persuaded every other member of her family to sing over it, singing their affection and their love for her into the charm, all the power of a thousand memories of laughter and love and sunrises encapsulated in it.

“Thank you,” she said, as she felt the power in the necklace. She immediately swept the mass of her hair off of her neck, and handed it to him, turning away from him with obvious expectation in her movements. He tied it around her neck, and she turned back to him with a smile.

A gift of jewellery did not mean the same thing among the Kindi as it would among the Noldor, where to accept and immediately wear a gift of jewellery was tantamount to accepting a suit. If it had meant the same thing, the necklace would have already been flung back in his face. Or perhaps she would have been gentle, or tried to be. That it didn't mean the same thing was very, very good, so Maglor was not entirely sure why his heart felt like it was sinking.

You didn't want her to know! Stop being so foolish. 

“Mine is not as sweet,” she told him, getting to her feet and rummaging through the benches. “I think you’ll find it useful, though.” She emerged with a pleased “hah!” She turned around, with a large bow in one hand, and a small pile balanced in the crook of her other arm. The bow was a large, Noldorin longbow, rather than the recurve bows that the Kindi favoured, and she strung it quickly. “I don’t think Gildor believed me when I said I was just curious, but he didn’t challenge me on it, either. And I think it turned out alright. Come over here and test it.”

Maglor swallowed and ran a hand over it. Well-made, with fine, detailed carvings on it that were nonetheless sufficiently light that it would not damage the wood of the bow with any further strain; the string was of the precious spider silk that the Kindi used for their very fine works. She must have traded something very valuable, for this.

He drew the string back, and tested its draw, before nodding. Well enough for hunting, or even combat at a short range, although it was not one of the great longbows that Fingon had favoured, with their fearsome range. But then, Morgoth wasn’t around anymore, was he?

He smiled at her. “Thank you. I might need your help. It’s been a while since I drew a bow.”

Neniel’s smile was very pleased, as she turned to her parents and her aunt, and began with their presents. The rest of the time was filled with laughter and teasing, especially when it came time to Regen’s turn.

“Well, it was going to be one of my snakes originally,” Regen said, and Maglor hoped that he was hiding the alarm he felt at that. “Neniel said that might be a good idea–” Maglor shot Neniel an icy look, and received a sunny, innocent smile that almost reached her eyes in reply. “–but then I tried talking to the snakes about it, and they all said it was far too cold to make new friends.” The grin widened, as Neniel sensed Maglor’s surge of relief. “So instead, Tauren said you might like one of the hounds, so I talked to Celenem, and he agreed that he’d go with you!”

The unfortunately-named dog lifted his head and barked from the corner of the longhouse where they had been ordered to sit. His eyes were dark and friendly, his coat a dark red-brown. Regen let out a lilting whistle, three notes from top to bottom, and Celenem rose and shook himself, and trotted over to Maglor.

“Is he one of your hunters?” Maglor asked, as he held out his hands for Celenem to sniff. Regen nodded.

“Rabbits, mostly. He’s not big enough to handle deer. But he’ll retrieve prey that you shoot as well, and he won’t fight with any otters.”

“That’s more your sister’s domain than mine,” Maglor said absently, as he sat still underneath Celenem’s inspection. Nine months old, or thereabouts, he thought. Old enough to leave his litter mates, certainly. “I wouldn’t worry about it much. Thank you for training him, Regen. He looks wonderful.” He cocked an eyebrow at Celenem. “Well, hound? Will you have me?” Celenem’s look was almost injured, as he sat and thumped his tail on the dirt floor of the longhouse. Maglor laughed, and rubbed behind the hound’s ears. “Very well, then. Although I can’t say I think much of your taste in companions!”

“You say that about everyone who walks with you,” Neniel pointed out, smiling. She glanced up to where the sunlight was already dimming, and her smile faded.

Nurwë said, as though finishing the thought his daughter could not bear to voice: “We should start getting ready.”   

---

“You can stop worrying about her so much, Iarwain.”

Mûk. 

Maglor looked back at Eirien, one of the fisher Elves, the first who had invited him to come and fish with her and her husband. He smiled at her. “Sorry?”

Eirien wore the daises for which she was named threaded into her brown hair, looking very different from her normally unkempt appearance, as she shot him a knowing smile. She had grown up as one of Tauren’s playmates, and perhaps that accounted for some of the way she admired Neniel so.

Eirien glanced to where Neniel was dancing with a number of other Elves in a leaping, spinning, jumping reel around the bonfire. The firelight played on the skin of Neniel’s back, illuminating the tattoo there: a stylized clover-leaf, looping around and pushing past the boundaries of a circle that attempted and failed to contain it.

“You’re looking at her like she’s an Elfling about to fall off the canoe,” Eirien said. “Relax. She’s not well now, but she’ll be well again by the first thaw.”

The confidence in her voice was so strong it almost hurt to hear.

“Why did you choose to follow her to Mithlond?” Maglor asked her. “You’re not that curious about the city. You love your life here.”

Eirien’s smile was fond as she glanced back out to the bonfire, where Neniel continued to dance. “I do. But many years ago, I caught the man I was courting at the time in another girl’s arms. She wasn’t to know, she was one of the des– um, I mean, the Doriathrim from around the Lake.” Maglor raised his cup in silent praise of the correction, and sipped. She’d been learning. “I ran into the forest crying. Neniellë came after me, hugged me, suggested a good number of insults for me to use on him, and then offered to dangle him upside-down from a tree for me.”

Maglor smiled. “Did you take her up on it?”

“Yes,” she said. “And the look on his face was a delight! But then she made me join in every other dance, and she didn’t have to do that. She danced the whole night with me, even though it was Midwinter, and she was no better then than she is now.” Eirien shrugged. “That’s why, for me. She makes a point of being there for people, when they need someone. Even Banë, even though they can’t stand each other ordinarily.”

Maglor snorted, and sipped at his cup of nanëni again. The animosity between Neniel and Banë dripped from every conversation they happened to have, like water from a net. After much study, Maglor had come to the conclusion that there wasn't much to the rumours. It was simply that they were born to annoy each other, Banë with his odd, very un-Kindi asceticism and insistence on formalities, and Neniel, who had elevated working around etiquette and manners and charming people anyway into an art form. 

“That doesn’t surprise me at all,” he said. Neniel hadn’t so much as slapped him that morning after he’d told her everything. Varda’s stars, her first action had been to offer her condolences, even though she was still struggling to get her head around the darkness of what he’d done. Of course she’d treat Banë kindly, if he needed it.

“Indeed,” Eirien said, with a shrug. The song came to an end, and the dancers disbanded. Neniel and Saelo, Eirien’s husband, both approached. Neniel threw herself down beside Maglor, her skin shining with sweat in the firelight.

“Eirien, you won’t dance?”  Saelo asked her, setting his head in her lap and smiling up at her. Maglor felt sour jealousy at their ease rise up in his throat, and took another drink from the cup of nanëni.

“Iarwain has plied me with nanëni,” Eirien said cheerfully, and Maglor immediately protested the calumny. Saelo looked terribly amused.  “He seems to have been trying to catch up on a thousand years of gossip in one night!”

“Oh? A thousand years of gossip? Poor Iarwain! You must have been so bored,” Neniel said, with a laugh that was almost uncomfortable.

“Unfortunately for you, not at all,” Maglor told her. “Although we haven’t gotten onto elfling stories yet.”

“Hah! Terrible threat. Eirien’s too young to remember those.”

“Unfortunately for you, I’m not,” came a new voice from behind them. Maglor twisted his head, and found Ráca grinning down at them, a bottle of nanëni in hand. “I can think of a few tales that should be told tonight.”

Neniel pulled a horrified face, and Ráca grinned, sitting down beside them, and refilling Maglor’s cup. Maglor frowned and tried to remember how much he’d had to drink that night already. Two cups? Probably? “Mercy, Ráca!”

“Certainly not,” Ráca said, pouring nanëni into Eirien’s cup now, and then Saelo’s, until Neniel was the only one without a cup. Maglor offered his to her, and Neniel took it with a thin smile, and took a long gulp. “Iarwain, have you heard about the badger incident?”

“I have not. Say on, Ráca!”

Neniel glared at them both, as Maglor stole his cup back. Ah. Empty now. Well, that solved his problem of not wanting to get any drunker.  “Traitors. I am surrounded by traitors.”

Maglor was not at all sure what his expression looked like, as Ráca said cheerfully: “We love you too, Neniellë. Now, this was before I was born, but Emmá told me the story when I was about five. I think it was to try and discourage me from doing the same thing…”

The story went something like this. Neniel, as one of the very few children in the village when she was born, had a tendency to bring home injured animals as a toddler. It had started with injured otter kits, and Dînen had thought nothing of it; after all, an association would always exist between Neniel and otters, since they had first been Sung as a gift for her. It had escalated to orphaned wolf cubs, and Nurwë had rolled his eyes, but after all, it was not too different from the earlier efforts of the Quendi to domesticate wolves, so Nurwë didn’t worry much either. It had culminated in a five-year old Neniel bringing home an adolescent badger. The rest of its clan had reacted poorly, and that was how Dînen had come in through the door of the longhouse to find her daughter busily trying to persuade the entirety of the clan to stay. Dînen had apparently by this time, gotten the idea that this was not entirely practical, and tried to explain to her that the badgers would miss their home. The badgers had gone home, and the next morning, Dînen had woken up to find Neniel missing. They had found her after a day in the badgers’ set, over a mile away, exhausted and curled up with the latest litter of kits.

“They made a deal after that,” Ráca said, laughing. “Neniel was permitted to bring home any stray she liked, provided there was only one, and that it was smaller than a bear cub, but she was never to leave the house without at leastletting her parents know where she intended to go. And then they didn’t let her leave the longhouse for a month.”

Maglor had started laughing halfway through, sensing the turn of the story, and hadn’t been able to stop. It was so typical, so Neniel, to try and adopt an entire family, when her efforts to gain a single playmate went awry. Neniel stuck out her tongue at him, and Maglor shook his head at her, smiling at her.

“The whole clan?” 

 “It seemed like a good idea at the time!” she said, her cheeks flushing, taking his cup and gulping down more of the nanëni.

“Oh, Nenya,” Maglor managed, shaking his head, the endearment he had bitten back multiple times finally slipping free. His sides hurt, his belly hurt, and there were tears rolling down his face. “Oh, Nenya.”

“Oh, come on. This isn’t fair for me to come under all the fire.” She twisted her head to glance at her cousin again. “Ráca, what about the time–”

And that was how the night passed until dawn, with a lot of laughter, and bottles of nanëni being passed between them, more stories and songs traded until Maglor’s head spun and all their throats were sore. Only once the sun was high in the sky did the bonfire eventually dwindle to nothing, and the Kindi stumble back to their homes, voices hoarse from singing, hands raw from clapping and playing their instruments, wobbling across the rope bridges. 

 

---

Chapter End Notes

*cracks knuckles* Okay, here we go! 

1. Apologies for the fact that this is written from Maglor's point of view, rather than Neniel's. Most of my experience with depression is secondhand. I do want to write something about Neniel's depression from her perspective someday, but I think for this particular narrative, it works better for moving the overall plot forward for this chapter to be from Maglor's point of view. Can't say I'm entirely satisfied, but there it is. 

2. With Nurwë's wake-up calls: Elven-song seems to replace tech for the Kindi in many respects, so I think that Nurwë and Neniel have both developed charms for alleviating depression that would work almost akin to medication. But a big part of depression is that it takes away a lot of the motivation to actually treat yourself, which is one of the reasons why it's Nurwë singing. Considering that excessive self-focus is also a symptom of depression, living in a communal culture is another protective factor, and I think that Neniel's family, after over a thousand years of this or so, is more than aware of that. Actually, I imagine that the Kindi as a culture are...really quite good at dealing with depression.

3. Sunlight has long been noted as a protective or mitigating factor in dealing with seasonal depression. Varieties of depression which are more severe in the morning is not uncommon, either. 

4. I finally found a suitable alternative to Mam! Emmá is taken from Sindarin 'emel', mother, but it follows Kindi noun rules, which typically end in vowels rather than consonants. I'll go back through the other chapters and change them after Christmas, probably.

5. With the smiles never really reaching her eyes: What I really wanted to capture in this chapter is that often, depressed people still function, they even still smile and laugh sometimes. But to those who know them well, there is often a sense of absence, a sense that something isn't quite right. That seemed that would be the most dominant symptom of Neniel, in a mild winter. Others, of course, include reduced appetite, weight loss or weight gain, irritability, mood swings, and impatience. 

6. Celenem means 'swift-nose.' Maglor thinks it's an unfortunate name. You are welcome to disagree, if you like. xD

 

Meetings

In which Maglor survives a long-overdue conversation and Neniel tallies supplies.

Read Meetings

“Do you want me to stay?” 

The question came as he sat down by the stream, balancing the food bowl on his knee. Celenem sat down beside him, his tail thumping on the dirt bank, before he set his nose on Maglor’s knee as well. 

“No. We don’t know how long this will take, if he’s not near water,” Maglor replied.  

She bit her lip as she glanced at him. She wasn’t bothering to use a neutral or cheerful face. In a way, that was reassuring. Her expressions were sincere, once more. As the spring returned, she had returned to her sociable, lively self, organising the festival to welcome the spring and ensuring that all supplies were gathered and prepared with seemingly inexhaustible supplies of energy. But where the onset of the sickness had been slow, this was almost as swift as a sunrise, and had happened with the snowmelt. 

She opened her mouth again, and he cut her off. “I’m sure.” 

There was simply no way to control this precisely, and she had far, far too many things clamouring for her attention, with them due to set off within a few days, when the moon became full. If this went badly, he would not wish for witnesses. If it went well…

Well, that was almost as frightening as the alternative. But this was Elrond, so Maglor leaned forward over the clear stream water, trusting that his pointed silence would convey his wishes on the matter. Eventually, he felt her presence recede south. 

It had to be done, and it could not be delayed. 

Maglor filled the bowl with water and began to sing, picturing Elrond’s face, still clear as a star in his mind. Exploding with talent and keen intelligence and strength like high summer, hope that had been muted by his storm of grief for Elros. How was he now? How had he changed? 

The sun was high in the sky, Celenem had begun tussling with the stream’s romp of otters, and Maglor’s legs were beginning to protest, when Elrond’s face was reflected in the water. He looked distinctly contemplative, as though he were lost in thought.  

Then Elrond glanced up and his eyes met Maglor’s. 

Shock and confusion, in the slack jaw and eyes round as full moons. Joy, for a single heartbeat. Then cool, studied neutrality.

“Maglor.” 

No smile. No nod of acknowledgement. Angry, then. Not quite full fury, though.

“Elrond,” he returned. “Shall I apologise now or later?” 

“I do not want an apology from you.” Ah. So Elrond was furious, and he’d merely gotten better at keeping it off his face in the past century or so.  “Where did you go?”

“South,” Maglor answered. “All the way to the mouth of the Baranduin. I thought you wouldn’t be able to get away from Mithlond long enough to look that far afield.” 

“You assumed that I’d look?” The tone was still cool and venomous. It was Elrond’s eyes that gave him away, though. There was anger in them, yes, but also something very raw and pained that Maglor recognised from when Elrond was a very young boy trying hard not to think about Elwing or Eärendil. 

Maglor offered him a wry smile. “Unless you decided to become sensible after we last spoke.” Elrond had shyly, wistfully brought up a daydream of them returning to Mithlond together, on the last day they had spent together. Maglor had vanished that night, as Elrond slept. “Have you?” 

“You’re infuriating,” Elrond said, and his voice was shaking now. That almost certainly was a no. Maglor wished, with a sudden wrenching fierceness, that he could be in the same room as Elrond and give him a hug. Elrond looked like he needed a hug. Although he probably would not take it well. But all the same. 

“I know,” Maglor said. “And I am sorry for leaving you. I should never have done it.” 

“You don’t say?” Elrond was mastering himself now, his voice even and controlled again. “Maglor. Why have you contacted me? How have you contacted me? Why now? It’s been a hundred and forty-two years!” 

So long? 

Maglor gathered his thoughts, and answered. “Ossë spoke with me, and told me to stop feeling sorry for myself, and try and do something constructive. Well,” Maglor considered the exact words that Ossë had used. “Constructive was not the word he used. But he seems to hope for some kind of healing, and implied that it would not be found by lamenting the litany of the dead by the seashore. I’m quite certain the implication was deliberate, too, not just me reading into it.” 

Elrond’s eyebrows, as dark as Maglor’s own, had nearly climbed into his hairline. “And why did he speak to you now, instead of choosing to speak earlier?” 

Maglor ignored a number of comments that presented themselves about the Ainur and their idiosyncratic view of timing. In this case, Ossë did have a reason.

“It appears that he’s been keeping an eye on me for quite a while,” Maglor said. “But before he spoke to me, I met someone who was travelling to meet with him and Uinen. She persuaded me to come with her.” 

“She persuaded you.” The skepticism in Elrond’s voice was thick. 

Maglor sighed. “I didn’t fight too hard. Especially once she pointed out that if Ossë had wanted me dead before that, he could have killed me easily.” Maglor shrugged. “So, after thinking on it for a while, I decided that – especially since he seemed to doubt that the Doom of Mandos was still holding strong – I should at least try. That means apologising and making amends to you, if you’re amenable.” 

“How do you propose to do that?” Less bitterly than before. There was something like hope in Elrond’s eyes, even though his words were neutral at best, and his tone was cool. 

“That is for you to say,” Maglor said. “Although if you choose wergild, I hope you’re particularly fond of eels. They’re my primary currency these days.” 

“Eels?” There was a hint of a smile in Elrond’s voice. “Are you saying you’ve become a decent fisherman?” 

“Against all odds, yes.” Maglor flashed a smile, and one corner of Elrond’s mouth tilted up in reply. “It seems to have happened mostly within the past year. The Baranduin has been very generous.” Explaining about the Kindi, Dînen, Nurwë and Neniel was probably something best done once Elrond had made his decision. 

“Hmm. We eat plenty of eels here, and I like them well enough. Wergild it is. I demand a well-built campfire.” 

“I can probably manage that.” 

“And you tell me everything you’ve been up to.” 

“Granted. Although there’s not much to tell before this prior year.” He might like to hear some of the cultural mishaps that had occurred, though. 

“And you’re doing the cooking. I leave the choice of dish to you.” 

“Alright,” Maglor said, trying not to grin. 

“You should not come to Mithlond, though.” 

“Agreed,” Maglor said, his heart twisting a little at the thought, keeping the not-quite grin in place. It was a reasonable course of action. A pity that his fëacould not care less about what was reasonable.

“Alright. You’re not still by the mouth of the Baranduin, are you?” 

Maglor shook his head. “Further north. I think I can be at the caves of the Ered Luin by summer, though.” 

“South side or north?” 

“South. I’m not that far north at the moment. I’m south of Lake Nenuial still.” 

“Alright.” There was another pause, where Elrond closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath. When he opened them, his eyes were clear and there was a glint of humour in them. “Well, I was thinking that I was beginning to get bored in Mithlond.” 

Maglor let the grin break out then, as he shook his head. “No fear of that, I think. Not for a while. In fact, Mithlond should become a great deal more interesting for you this year.” 

The glint of humour faded. Maglor nearly put up his hands in a show of innocence, and then remembered that he was holding the bowl and could not, even if Elrond was inclined to accept his protestations. “No war, no danger! Only, you are about to get a population influx.” 

“Oh?” Curiosity had returned now, as Elrond’s eyebrows rose again. 

“Yes. In fact, there’s somebody I ought to introduce to you. Is now a good time?”

Elrond glanced away, and shook his head. “I only came into my room to clean up before the noon meal. I should be free this evening. Around eight– hmm. No clocks?” Maglor shook his head. “I should have guessed. Moonrise?” 

Maglor smiled. “Moonrise it is.”

---

Neniel stared down at the map and ran through the lists of supplies in her head again. 

Yards of waterproof cloth for temporary shelters, to be hauled by tôthu in tough otter-skin bags. Odds on it raining at points were good, and while it didn’t bother her, it would certainly bother some of the others.

Pelts of fur and blankets. Some, but not many would be required, given that nearly everybody was coming was either married, or travelling with a close kinsman or kinswoman. The only person who would be sleeping alone would be Maglor. Neniel had no doubt that if somebody tried to bed down with Maglor, they would be given a polite smile, a convenient pretext for Maglor to attend to some chore would be found, and Maglor’s bedroll would mysteriously be relocated to the opposite side of the campsite without a word on the matter. It was more or less what had happened at the fenlands, after all. But at least Celenem would be there to curl up at Maglor’s feet now.

 They would have to make arrangements for more cloth for blankets in Mithlond, if winters there proved colder. But if they got there by summer, that would leave six months to do so. More than enough time. Hopefully. 

Yarn, at least six balls of it, in varying colours, and thread and needles. Gilado, one of Helado’s cousins had seen to that. She’d have to keep an eye on him and his brothers, now that she thought about it. Helado would want to know how they fared, when she called back to her family. She’d have to set something up, create charms to make the water-mirror song easier for keeping in touch across the distance. When it had been her and a few friends roaming across the Great Wood, well, that was one thing. Quite another when it was almost one in twenty of their people who was leaving. Most of those leaving were progressing with the tengwar, but they would probably not wish to write letters in Sindarin, and there was certainly not enough time to try and figure out if and how Kindi would fit into the tengwar system. 

Meat, and lots of it: venison, squirrel, rabbit, otter, trout, and salmon, all smoked and dried and made travel tough. Maglor was right, though; best keep the number of tôthu brought to a minimum, if they didn’t want to have to spend half the time hunting for stores.   

Fruit, also dried or pickled, and stores of pickled vegetables. She had worried about the depleting stores, until Salyë had flicked her in the back of her skull and told her to stop worrying, and that they had all of spring and summer to replenish the stores, so hurry up and start wrapping the jars in nettle-cloth. 

The bread that Maglor called lembas. Ten cakes all up, and no more; the stores of hazelnut oil and river-reed flour had been depleted by the winter, and there was no way to replenish them before they left. Still, that would help with any shortfalls. 

What was she missing?

There would be Elflings coming along. Not many; about ten in total. Regen would be the oldest among them; perhaps she was old enough to help keep them in line? Still, something for bribery might go along way. Had they packed candied hazelnuts? 

A doeskin pack hit her feet, and her father smiled down at her. “Could it be your own packing?” 

Ah.

His smile widened. “Helado! Come in here!” 

What? I thought he was busy today!

Apparently not, though. Her brother’s shoes slapped against the dirt floor of the longhouse, as he ducked around the dividing screen, with a cloth-wrapped bundle in his arms, which he set down on his sleeping mat before coming over to join them. The packing was done fairly quickly; five tunics in brown and grey and green and pairs of leggings that the stains had never really vanished from. They would be good for when there was much labour to be done in Mithlond, or for when there was prey to be killed and dressed. Three tunics, unstained, that Helado insisted on adding, done in deep forest green, one in black, and one dyed yellow, and a pair of black leggings. 

“Enough,” she said. “I’m not taking any more clothes. This is ridiculous.” 

“Oh, no, it’s not,” Helado said, shaking his head. “You’ve visited the iathrim around the Lake even more than I have.” Neniel felt a flash of pride that even Helado was using the term ‘iathrim instead of the much more inflammatory ‘deserter.’ “This, by their standards, is very little. Besides, there’s one more thing that I insist that you take.” 

Her protest died in her throat as he withdrew the bundle and unwrapped it, setting it in her lap. 

“You’re leading them,” Helado said simply. “You should look your best.” 

The skirt and bodice were both spider silk, dyed in a gorgeous, deep purplish-red colour, the colour of the wines some of the iathrim made. The blouse was the same cut as her old blouse, high-necked, coming up to her collarbones and encircling her neck there, and he had stitched tiny flecks of amber along the collar. There was a choker that went with it, a silken ribbon in a matching colour with amber dotted alongside it. Three delicate wavy lines of embroidery ran across the skirt from the left hip to the skirt, mimicking the flow of the river, a silent reminder of her heritage from her mother’s side.

Neniel swallowed, running a hand over the outfit. “Stars and spiders. Helado, this–” 

Helado grinned back at her. “I told you your present would be worth the wait.” 

Neniel shook her head in amazement, studying the workmanship. “Helado, this is incredible.”

“Yes, it is.” There was pride in Helado’s voice. “Gilado and Laino and I worked on it together. Sílena helped me find the amber. And now, when you meet with all the Noldor and the iathrim, half of them will stand on their tongues.” 

Neniel felt a laugh bubble up in her throat, as she smiled at Helado, and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you.” 

“My pleasure.” 

She squeezed his hand. “Look after Tauren for me?” 

“Of course.” Helado kissed her cheek as well, and they packed the costume away, before his eyes went unfocussed. He shot her an apologetic look. “I’d better go. It sounds like there’s been a mishap.” Neniel made to get to her feet, and Helado shook his head. “It should be alright. I’ll call you if we need help. She sounds more irritated than anything else.” 

He was moving out the door quickly, and Neniel ran her fingers across the outfit again. It was absolutely lovely, the work of several months. Craftsmanship to match anything that the iathrim around the Lake wore so proudly, or that she had seen reflected in Maglor’s songs, but all in distinctively Kindi style. All for the better that way. The Noldor, Falathrim, and iathrimhad fled the sinking of Beleriand; the Kindi had survived and fled the famine of Cuiviénen. Three groups had fled east, and one had fled west. But these lands belonged to none of them. It had been one of the things that had amused her the most, in the negotiations with the Doriathrim of territory and hunting around the Lake, the way they casually spoke of land as theirs and yours. Arda belonged to herself, and not even the Ainur who had helped Sing her into being could truly lay claim to ownership of her. It was folly to think otherwise. 

“If you take your hands off it, I don’t think it will vanish.” 

She flashed her father a grin, and ran a finger over the amber lines once more, before carefully bundling it in with the other clothes. 

“He didn’t have to do that.” 

“You are his sister,” Ataro said, “and I think he wanted a new project as well. He doesn’t do things he doesn’t want to do. None of you do.” 

She tucked the pack closed, worry forming a stone in her throat, and she looked up at him.

“Are you angry with me for leaving?” 

Ataro shook his head, earrings swinging with the movement. “No. I knew this day would come. The thing that surprises me is that you waited this long since the Rider being cast out.” 

She shrugged. “There was settling things with the iathrim. That took up a good couple of centuries. Then there was Eilian. And then Tauren was born. Then Regen.” 

“You still could have gone,” Ataro pointed out. “Although I’m very glad you were here while Tauren was growing up.”  

She smiled wryly, and leaned her head against her shoulder, feeling very young, but very safe, all over again. “I was scared?” 

A chuckle, and a kiss pressed to her hairline. “Understandable. The new always frightens us.” Another silence, and then her father reached out to her in thought, with a memory. She lay on her back in the longhouse, a few days after the spring thaw, playing with the latest litter of puppies, almost buried under the little paws, small bodies and cheerful doggy thoughts. She had been giggling, unable to stop. She felt the memory of her father’s delight that she was laughing again, and Maglor stood over her, looking down on her with a grin. His smile was wide and teasing, as he asked her if she was planning on getting up any time that day. His eyes, though, were very soft. And she had smiled back up at him, her stomach giving a slight flutter. 

She sighed, as the memory came to an end. 

“You can’t have missed it,” her father said. 

“No, of course not,” Neniel said, getting to her feet as well. She ran a hand through her hair as she spoke. Maglor had not saidanything, but then, he didn’t need to. The second she had considered the possibility, it had explained a few of the odder aspects of his behaviour since the summer quite neatly.  “Although I wondered if I was imagining it, in the winter.”  

“So?” Ataro prodded. “We know how he feels. How do you feel?”

How did she feel? 

If she was honest…

Terrified. Because he was handsome and kind, had the loveliest voice that she had ever heard, had a patience and strength that reminded her of mountain roots, and whenever she contemplated the approaching farewell, her heart twisted. 

But…

When has this ever ended well?

Not everyone had regarded the idea of courting the river-daughter with distaste or fear. There had been a few brave souls who had given it a try. Only to be driven away by her habits of meditating by the water, or in the water, sometimes, or the furious, frenetic energy that seized her during the river-floods. Or the ice and the darkness of winter.

You were gone, and you will be gone again. How can I bind myself to that? 

Maglor had not even blinked at how off-balance she had been, after they’d setting the autumn rains, and set the river in spate. He’d strung up a tarpaulin, taken his harp out of its bag, and played merry dances on it until she collapsed, hair and clothes soaked through with the rain, giggling and breathless on the muddy forest floor. And he had smiled. 

It would be so, so easy to fall in love with Maglor. But what were the odds of it working? She had once thought that she would marry Eilian, that he would sire her children. And the way that had ended still had them avoiding each other, two centuries later. Moving to Mithlond would make that vastly easier, at least.

 “I wouldn’t assume too much from that look, though, Ataro,” Neniel said, as though she hadn’t heard the question. Judging by Ataro’s slow blink, she hadn’t fooled him with it; he had merely decided to humour her.  

“You did see the way he was looking at you?”                                          

Definitely humouring her. But she could work with that. 

“Yes, of course. But…Ataro, I was the first company he’d had in over a century. Of course his heart is soft towards me now. He likes me, is fond of me. Possibly credits me with making him recover, even though I didn’t do much except sit down by his campfire and make a sufficiently big nuisance of myself that he couldn’t ignore me.” Ataro rolled his eyes at that. “It’s gratitude, more than anything else, I think. He’s not in love with me.” She smiled at her Ataro, with a shrug. Aren’t we young Elves silly? Because saying that made her feel horribly sad, and aching, and angry. If it was a lie, it was a good one. If it was the truth…

Of course he’s not in love with you. Who would be?

“Odds are good that he’ll get over it by winter,” she said, and her voice was as light as sea foam.   

“Do you really think so?” 

“I do,” she said firmly. He would get over it. And so would she.

Eru knew they had little alternative. 

“Hmm. So that’s why you’ve said nothing to him.”

“And aggravate that famous Fëanorion pride?” She grinned at him. “I’d prefer to keep him as a friend.” 

“I think you’d have his friendship either way,” Ataro said, tone thoughtful again. “He’s not the spiteful type. Not now, at least, assuming that he ever was. But very well. You are old enough to manage your own relationships.” There was something to his tone that suggested there was another thought he wasn’t voicing. Trying to get it out of him would be all but useless, though. Ataro was the person who’d taught her how to dodge questions in the first place. 

She smiled at him again. “Determined to avoid repeating Thingol’s mistakes?” 

“There are enough mistakes for me to make without copying anyone else’s follies,” her father agreed. “Come on. Let’s go get the basin out. Then you can help me fry the spiders up.”  

She sighed. That was the one problem with leaving all her male kin, and Maglor, behind. 

Cooking.

If nothing else, the new year would be interesting. 

---

  Maglor had insisted, politely but firmly, on performing the introductions one by one, remembering acutely how overwhelmed he had felt when Neniel had first pulled him into the swirling currents of her family. That, in turn, had led to a hurried discussion of precedence, before everybody deciding that the most urgent thing to clarify was Neniel’s place as the one leading the migration, with Ráca as her second. Nurwë and Salyë could be introduced later. 

Neniel’s face was set in a bright smile, and her manner was relaxed and easy. If Maglor had not already sensed that she was nervous, he would have been entirely fooled.

Her fingers slipped over the surface of the water, and she hummed the song, making the water ripple. Nurwë’s baritone rumbled out a harmony beneath it, and Maglor closed his eyes and pictured Elrond again.

Grey eyes blinked up at him, and Elrond’s face was filled with wonder for a moment, his emotion raw and naked on his face. You came again.

He really needed to give Elrond a hug, when he saw him. Even if Elrond wanted to hit him. Maglor would simply have to duck, in that case. 

Elrond cleared his throat. “Hello, Maglor. Híril nín.” A polite, but by no means deferential, nod in Neniel’s direction. 

“Hello, Elrond,” Maglor responded. “Let me introduce you to someone. This is Neniel, daughter of Dînen, Maia of the Baranduin, niece of Ossë and Uinen; daughter also of Nurwë, and the niece of Salyë, the leaders of the Kindi. You may or may not have heard about them from the Doriathrim around Lake Nenuial.” 

Elrond’s eyes widened momentarily, before he recovered himself, and gave a courteous nod. “A pleasure to meet you, Neniel.” 

“Suilad, Elrond son of Elwing, grandson of Nimloth, great-grandson of Lúthien Melianiel.” The slightest of hesitations, before: “Maglor has told me so much about you. Good things, I promise.” 

“Has he, now?”

“Good things,” Neniel repeated, with a grin. “Besides, you can hear about my misadventures soon, and I’m sure yours will pale by comparison. I’m coming to Mithlond, you see, if you think that would be alright.” 

Elrond smiled. Not a diplomatic smile, but a genuinely joyful one that lit his face up. “It would be nice to have someone else around who is part-Maia and part-Elven! I take it that you’re not coming alone, given Maglor’s warning?” 

She shook her head. “Seventy people. We’ve been hearing more and more about the city for a while now, from your kinsmen around the Lake. Is that alright?” 

“I don’t think it will be a problem. We have everybody in Lindon, Noldor, even some of the Doriathrim still, and some of Círdan’s Falathrim. I’ll speak to Gil-galad and let you know.” 

Neniel’s smile was luminous, and her words tumbled out, her accent slurring the words and making the Sindarin all run together. “Wonderful! Thank you so much! While you’re here, I should probably introduce you to the others. Would that be alright? Ataro! Aunt Salyë!”

“Brace yourself,” Maglor whispered to Elrond, deliberately theatrical. He said it in Quenya, but Neniel must have guessed the meaning of it, because she trod on his foot. He pulled a face at her, and her smile just widened. Maglor rolled his eyes at her, and once again, ended up smiling back at her. 

Had he been looking at the water instead of Neniel’s smile, Maglor would have seen Elrond’s eyes go wide, and his eyebrows crash together into a puzzled frown, looking like a man who has just encountered something he has been assured all his life is impossible.

But Neniel laughed as she pulled her father and aunt and mother over to the basin, the merry, charmingly bright laugh still made him feel unjustly pleased with himself, and so Maglor did not see the curious, speculative expression on Elrond’s face. 

---

Chapter End Notes

*frazzled head pops up* This time, no lament of 'how did this happen to me.' I have come to a recent agreement with the Cheshire Cat on the subject of madness, so no more lamentations for lost sanity. With that in mind: onwards!

1. I hope you liked Elrond here. He is not usually quite this snappy, but frankly, if my father figure vanished on me when I was in the middle of grieving for my twin, I'd be trying to reach through the water to slap him. Elrond is, of course, much wiser than I am, though, even at this young age. Which is why he comes around pretty quickly. 

2. Song-based waterproof tarpaulins. In a world of river-daughters, sleeping-spell laden robes, and bards, I will die on this hill.

3. At first, I wondered if the Kindi would eat otters, considering that they work very closely with them to catch the fish. But then, everything dies eventually, and given that Nurwë and Salyë have never really forgotten the catastrophic food shortages by Cuiviénen, I can't see them wasting the otter meat once the otter is dead.

4. No room to talk about it here, but I like to imagine that Maglor, when he got wind of Helado's project, had a hurried discussion with him on why some particular shades of blue or red would not be appropriate at all for a representative of the Avari. And then Helado decided that if he couldn't do red or blue, he might as well do purple. I'm not wondering about how.

5. I like to think that Neniel's views about the ridiculousness of land 'belonging' to anyone were something that she decided on as a very young woman. She changed a lot, but that never changed for her. 

6. 'The Rider' is the name I have seen given Melkor in many Cuiviénen fics, such as those written by kazeara, which have heavily influenced me. I think that Nurwë uses it much like he uses Ataro, a PQ term rather than a more recent Kindi term, mostly because that's how his Grumpy Old Elf essence manifests itself, with linguistic insistences. 

7. 'iathrim' referring to the Elves of Doriath.

8. Híril nín: 'my lady.' Apparently the 'noun + nín' construct is not quite correct. I...couldn't care less, at this point. It's too firmly engraved in my brain.

9. On The Thing With Neniel: Before anyone murders me, this is marked as part of a series for a reason.

...Okay, that should be everything. Fire away.

 

Partings

Exactly what it says on the tin.

Read Partings

The course was set for west-northwest, and the map was very helpful delineating where the Great Wood ended and the light woodlands and moors over the downs began. Celebrían adored her maps, and the workmanship of them shone through in every pen-stroke.

Neniel set the maps down, and glanced up through the roof of the kitchen. The energy of spring was still singing through her veins, and she would not need to sleep tonight. Tauren was curled up with Helado, but she was awake as well, her mind running restlessly over new possibilities for making tomorrow, and sadness for the parting. Regen had fallen asleep on Neniel’s shoulder not long before. Dawn would break, soon.

Neniel scooped Regen up into her arms, and Regen burrowed in closer, instinctively reacting to the presence of another body, the primordial sense of safety, trained into her from earliest childhood. Neniel ducked around the screen and carefully stepped over Celenem, curled over Maglor’s feet. Then reached out with thought to her parents.

Unlike her daughters, who simply had varying degrees of difficulty sleeping in the spring, Dînen did not sleep during the spring for more than an hour at night at most. She was lying beside Nurwë, her head on his chest, her eyes closed in pleasure as she listened to the steady ba-bum of his heartbeat, as filled with wonder as she had been when she first met and spoke with the Elves under the starlight.

Emmá? 

Her eyes opened, and met Neniel’s, and Dînen smiled, slowly sitting up, and Neniel deposited Regen onto the mat, in the spot that their mother had just left. Ataro’s eyes blinked away muzzy sleep, and his arm stretched out to gather Regen close. Regen’s breathing deepened, and Neniel felt her father reach out to Regen and Tauren both, brushing at their minds with soothing, sleepy affection, coaxing them to Lórien. Dînen took Neniel’s hand and they got to their feet, walking out of the door of the longhouse, and around the side of it down to the banks of the river, where they stripped off their clothes, and dived into the river.

Water swirled around her ears, her hair, her fingers, her feet, and Neniel smiled, slow contentment curling through her as she opened her eyes, and they swam north, until they went past the first bend of the river north of the village.  She blinked silt from her eyes as she dived to touch the river bed, singing out a single note that sent the particles skittering away on a fresh current rippling through the water.

Dînen laughed amid the silt, and Neniel laughed with her. The life of the river pulsed around them both. Schools of trout and romps of otters; grayling and perch, down towards the south, and eels and salmon, already steadily swimming north.

She reached out in thought to her mother, sharing the joy, and felt it reflected back at her, bright and shimmering and teeming with life.

I love you.

Impossible to tell who had spoken first; the only thing that mattered was that it hung in the water between them, and they felt it swirl around them, truth mixed freely with the sand, the water, the fish scales.

As always, Neniel’s mind was quicker to move to a new thought, the moment breaking faster for her than it did for Dînen. She glanced at her mother.

You’re not angry, Neniel ventured.

A pale blond eyebrow rose. Should I be? 

Neniel shrugged helplessly. It was the kind of question that had no answer. Should you? Some of the parents were, when their children decided to leave.

That seems like a great waste of energy. Dînen’s eyes were twinkling. They should have learned from watching you.

Neniel raised an eyebrow. Oh?

You’re like salmon. You always come back to the river eventually. 

Neniel laughed again, and swum to the surface, until she broke through it and stood on it, singing under her breath – softly, it wouldn’t do to wake anyone else –  the notes that had ice forming underneath her feet. Her Emmá laughed, too, and sang out a note that had the ice melting. Neniel sang again, and leapt onto the next chunk of newly formed ice. She could have simply stayed on the surface of the water, but that would have been against the rules of the game. There was no score kept, and no points, simply the feeling of ice underfoot, solid and then melting, and leaping to the next chunk, and singing out counterpoints to re-freeze the water, as they wrestled for control of the water.

They played there under the moonlight, until the sky began to lighten towards grey.

I will miss you, Neniel said, as they begun to return. There were quicker ways to get there, of course, but there was something pleasant about the stretching and moving of muscles.

I’ll miss you too. Dînen sighed. But your uncle will keep an eye on you. 

Neniel smiled. Tell me, Emmá, is there any way I’ll ever be able to escape you having an eye on me?

Dînen smiled back. Not if I can help it.

They laughed again, as they swum back past the river-bend into the village waters. 

---

“You’ll keep in touch through the water mirrors,” Nurwë reminded Regen sternly.

“Yes, Ataro,” Regen said, bouncing on her toes a little. At Nurwë’s right, Dînen was shooting amused glances at her mate, and fond smiles at her daughters. The river-family was standing in a knot at the edge of the clearing. Around them, more knots were forming, as families made their farewells. Maglor had faded back into the treeline and was watching the scene, leaning back against an alder that seemed a bit more friendly than its fellows.

“Did you pack birch sticks?” Nurwë asked his youngest.

“Yes, Ataro,” Maglor mouthed along with Regen’s rote response.

“Be good for your sister.”

“Yes, Ataro.”

Beside Regen, Neniel smiled, and Nurwë turned to his eldest daughter, shaking his finger at her. “That goes for you too, Neniellë! All of it!”

“Yes, Ataro,” she said, tone demure, in stark contrast to her smile.

Nurwë shook his head ruefully, bent to kiss Regen’s cheek, and then straightened to kiss Neniel. “I’ll be lucky if you listen to half of it. Will I see you in the Fading?”

“Yes, I think so,” Neniel said, deviating from the formula and pulling her father into a tight hug. Dînen wrapped her arms around her daughter and her mate, and Nurwë’s other daughters and Helado all wriggled in to join the embrace. Maglor felt a wistful pang at the sight, and reminded himself that he needed to give Elrond a hug when he saw him. That was something to look forward to, even after the pain of saying good-bye to the Kindi, and to Neniel.

The family hug was breaking apart, as Tauren and Helado went to say goodbye to his cousins who would be going to Mithlond. Nurwë held his eldest and youngest daughters for a moment longer, before kissing them both on the forehead, and gently nudging them towards Salyë, Ráca and Tuilo. Then he touched Dînen’s shoulder briefly, and walked towards Maglor. Maglor straightened up, curious.

Nurwë reached Maglor’s side, and pulled him into a hug, moving slowly enough that Maglor could not possibly be startled. The older Elf had to lean up slightly to do it, for Nurwë was about the same height as Neniel, and Neniel came to Maglor’s chin.

“Have you got everything?” he asked.

Maglor couldn’t quite hold back a startled laugh. Nurwë and he got along quite well, but he had not realized Neniel's father was actually a little fond of him. “I’m beginning to think that asking that is a reflex of yours when people go off on journeys.” 

“It is,” Nurwë admitted, releasing him from the hug. “Possibly that’s why Neniellë didn’t warn me she was going somewhere last time. Do you have everything?”

“Yes. I have been looking after myself for a while now, you know.”

“True. You know, you could stay here if you liked.”

Maglor shook his head. “You’re not the only one with children who need looking after.” Even if he couldn't be in Mithlond on a permanent basis. That was leaving aside the fact that harbouring a Kinslayer would probably make any potential relationships with Gil-galad tricky, and that Tauren still did not like Maglor very much, although she would grudgingly concede that he was not responsible for her sisters’ thirst for new adventures.

“I understand. Still, the invitation stands, should you ever require it.” Nurwë smiled. “If for no other reason than you are dear to my daughter.”

That statement sent a warm glow through his fëa, and Maglor tried to think of an appropriate response. Nurwë’s smile widened, the same wide smile that Neniel had when she knew something and was waiting for someone to catch up.

It was like when a mistake in an equation became apparent, the wrong step finally isolated, and Maglor stared.

Nurwë knew. He’d known. Possibly since the day Neniel had brought Maglor to the longhouse, Nurwë had known, and had been nothing but kind, generous and hospitable.

Why aren’t you angry? Maglor demanded silently. If you know how I feel about her?  

Nurwë’s dark eyebrows, shot through with silver like an ageing Man, rose slowly.

“Angry at you? For what? Finding my daughter loveable?” Nurwë shook his head. “Besides, you have several points in your favour. You are not frightened of her strengths or her weaknesses, you do not think first of your own comfort, and – with no offence to your son’s line – you are not mortal, so I do not need to worry about Neniellë ever trying to repeat Lúthien’s extraordinary exploit for your sake.” Nurwë shrugged, smiling wryly. “No doubt she’ll find other reasons for me to worry, but at least they will be different reasons.”

Maglor frowned. “Beren was a much better person than I could ever hope to be.”

“I’m sure that you’re correct,” Nurwë said, with the same airy tone that Neniel used when she was being glib. “But if I had to stop letting people sleep under my roof on the grounds of killing people, then I would have never built a roof in the first place.” Nurwë shrugged. “At some point, Nerdanelion, Fëanorion, you need to stop judging and weighting yourself and your deeds up and live.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Did I say it was simple?” Nurwë’s eyes were smiling. “Keep an eye on them for me, alright?”

“I’ll do what I can,” Maglor said, which was true, strictly speaking, but Nurwë had to know how little that was worth.

Nurwë clapped him on the shoulder. “Good. Oh, hello, it looks like Neniellë’s about to start rounding everyone up.” He glanced overhead at the sun. “You might even be gone before noon, at this rate.”

“For a lord of the Unbegotten, you’re awfully optimistic, Nurwë.”

“Keep your voice down,” Nurwë said, mock-scolding. “I have a reputation to maintain.”

---

By the third day of walking, as they walked north-west, they had walked out of thinning forest and into the downs. The hills were rolling and grassy, and there were patches of wildflowers blooming, blue cornflowers and pink and red pansies and regal, elegant lupin flowers in pale mauves. There were some groves of trees, elders and friendly alders and stately great beeches, scattered here and there, but they were nothing like dense woods that formed the hinterland of the Kindi village. The tôthu trotted among the company, hauling the frame-devices the Kindi used to help pack down their encampments up the hills with a steady, determined pace that ate up the ground while preserving their energy, as the hounds trotted faithfully by their masters’ sides.

Neniel and Ráca walked at the front of the company in the morning, with the younger Elves who raced ahead eagerly, dropped back to chat with the people at the back when they stopped for the noon rest, and usually finished the day in the middle, where the Elflings walked and played, safe in the centre of the group. Maglor thought he could guess at the reason for their rotating pace, too; it meant that they could hear about any minor problems before they grew into large problems. Clever Goldberry.

The pace of the Elflings was slow, and so the pace of the company was slow. But this day, Neniel was pushing them faster. She had halved the amount of time they spent resting at noon, and walked at the back to chivvy any stragglers along, while Ráca walked at the front. About half of the Elflings were in their twenties, early adolescents; however, the other half were all under the age of fifteen, and had no chance of keeping pace with the adults at all. By the afternoon, the Elflings had become so tired that many of the adults had picked them up and swung them onto their shoulders. Even Regen had decided to climb onto Maglor’s back, her arms wrapped around his neck, resting just below the legs of the toddler he was carrying as well. Eirien and Saelo had amused the Elflings by quizzing them on different plants as they walked, tested their knowledge of whether the plant was harmful or helpful, and taught and quizzed them on rhymes that gave the answers. Maglor thought that Eirien was cheating a little, when she changed the standards of the quiz to include whether the plant was harmful to any animals, as well as to Elves, but perhaps Kindi games differed from Noldor games like that. Maglor found himself learning far more herb-lore than teaching it, to the amusement of the Elflings.

At sunset, they reached the crest of a hill, and Neniel called out instructions to make camp. The hill sloped steeply away to the west, and the setting sun painted slopes in gold and orange light, turning the yellow scrambling flowers that nearly covered the slopes a deep, burnished gold. It was a clear night, with no threat of rain, so they would not need to put up any tarpaulins for shelter. Maglor set down the little boy he had been carrying down, and received a quick hug around the knees, before he scampered over to join his friends. Maglor smiled, and then looked to Neniel. She was looking a little stressed, but otherwise coping well, as she spun around to do a quick head-count.

She must have noticed his glance, because her voice lapped at the edge of his mind’s defences a few minutes later, when some of the tension leaked out of her shoulders.

I don’t know how you did it. 

Envy, stress and not inconsiderable exasperation with herself, all curling around the thought, along with – strangely enough – admiration, running beneath it. Admiration directed at him.

Maglor blinked, and then, a moment later, when he had shoved the warm glow that thought sent through him behind a door and set bars over the door, reached back in thought.

You’re doing fine, he reassured her. Really, Neniel. 

It shouldn’t be this difficult!

Shouldn’t it? he returned, coming to stand beside her. You’re used to travelling yourself, or with less than ten people. You now have seventy, a dozen of them Elflings. It’s an adjustment. He took another breath, and glanced westward again, towards the sunset, and felt his lips quirk into a smile at the sight. Neniel’s head turned as well, and she studied the sunset for a moment, smiling as well.

“You’ll grow into it,” he said, finishing his thought aloud.

She snorted. “You make it sound like a new set of clothes.” She thought about it for a moment, chewing on her lip. “But then, I suppose it is, in a way. Although clothes, you can take off.”

“No such luck,” Maglor agreed lightly, so that he wouldn’t think too hard about the comparison. “Ráca would be very cross with you, if you changed your mind before you got to Mithlond.”

Neniel snorted again. “And I’d never hear the end of it from Tuilo, or Tauren.” She ran a hand through her hair. “Thank you.”

He took her hand in his, and squeezed it gently. It was a strong hand. Graceful, long-fingered like his own, toughened and callused from years of bow-strings, cool to the touch. Not cold, just a degree or two cooler than his own skin. It must be a river-daughter quirk, like the ability to breathe underwater without coming up for air, or walking on the surface of the water. He let himself hold it for a bit longer than normal, memorising the feel of her skin against his. Neniel squeezed back; probably sensing the wistfulness he couldn’t fully suppress. Maglor forced a smile, and withdrew his hand.

“Do we need to refill the water skins?” he asked, as Neniel took a breath and opened her mouth.

Neniel frowned, as her train of thought was interrupted. “Maybe? There’s a stream half a league to the north in the woods, but we refilled when we crossed that brook this morning…”

“I’ll go check, shall I?” Maglor said brightly, before walking over to Saelo and Eirien.

If they noticed the sudden tension in his shoulders, they didn’t say anything. It turned out that the Elflings’ water skins were mostly empty, and they did indeed need re-filling, so Saelo and Eirien walked with him northwards towards the forest.

Neniel’s voice rang out faintly in his mind. Be careful. There is a herd to the north. Mothers with calves.

Maglor halted instantly, holding his hand up. “Hold.”

Say what you would about the Avari, but they were not fools, and they taught their children caution from earliest childhood. Both Saelo and Eirien instantly halted, their eyes scanning the surroundings, hands shifting towards the daggers they wore in their belts.  

Herds? What sort of animals? Not boar? he asked Neniel.

A hesitation, and then a memory floating across her mind. Beside a stream, a creature that looked like a massive bull drank, with long, curling horns that were sharp at the ends, long slender legs, and an immense bulk to it. It glanced up, dark eyes shining with a fierce intelligence, and its head came up, pawing the ground. Neniel watched it from across the stream, and very slowly, dipped her head and spoken out in Valarin in greeting. It was nearly as tall as I am.

That meant it came nearly up to seven feet at its shoulder. And it had looked almost as long as it was tall.

…how much do those things weigh? Maglor asked warily.

I don’t know. I’ve never gotten into a collision with one, Neniel replied, a grim humour to her voice, and I’d like to keep it that way.

That was something, coming from Neniel. She’d hunted boar as a young woman without a qualm; had treated slaying the brown bear at the encampment, a thing that must have weighed at least five hundred pounds, so casually that Maglor had stared at her in disbelief. The salted meat from it had fed them both all the way to the fenlands and back to the river that she called the Greylady. If she was frightened of tangling with these things…

Alright, Maglor said, his mind whirring. How far north? 

The closest I can feel them is a league away, she said, and Maglor felt a surge of relief. But they’re grazing animals. They’ll probably come south towards the grasslands. It’s why I wanted us to reach the top of this hill by tonight. They’ll cut across the more shallow slopes. They won’t want to push their calves too far, too fast. 

Wise, Maglor agreed. Alright. We should be able to make it back in time without incident. I take it they’re not aggressive if their herd is not threatened?

She huffed. They leave Elves alone, if we leave them alone. So you should be alright, she agreed. But I’d feel better if I was there with you.

Live with it.

She huffed again. If you die, I don’t think your son will ever forgive me.

Going by my past record, I seem difficult to kill, Maglor replied, gentling his voice again at the worry he could hear in her voice, and threading it with humour. Much like a roach, I suppose.

…a what? Never mind, tell me later. Just get the water and get back here alive! 

---

“Well,” Maglor said, rolling onto his front to watch the herds passing south through the slopes to the east of them. The sunset had faded to twilight, the Downs illuminated by the waning sliver of the moon. Most of the Kindi were sitting along the crest of the hill, watching the herds pass through. A fire burning brightly in the centre of the hill meant that the darmún would not approach them. The bedrolls were already set out, and the Elflings were chattering to their parents about everything they had learned that day; some were already asleep in their parents’ laps.  “We definitely didn’t have those in Aman.”

“Aman lacked something?” Ráca asked. She sat in between Maglor and Neniel. She had made as though to move, when Maglor sat down on her left, and he had declined the offer with a protest that he had re-filled the water-skins, and he refused to get up again until the dawn for anything other than a marauding party of goblins.

“Well, danger, for one,” Maglor replied to her question. There had been cattle like the breeds below in Lothlann and Hithlum, herded by the Edain, but they had been smaller. Presumably, their larger cousins were not nimble enough to cross the mountains? Or perhaps more resistant to being domesticated? “That was why Grandfather Finwë left Middle-Earth in the first place, for the promise of a land free from fear. Most of the animals in Aman were friendly, and for the ones that weren’t, the Maiar usually helped smooth the way.” He shook his head. “The cattle of the Vanyar were much, much smaller, though.”

“What about those roaches you mentioned?”

“The darmún are much more magnificent than cockroaches.” He let old memories drift across the surface of his mind, of brown carapaces and wings in Telperion’s silvery light, as the roaches sought the shelter and trapped heat of the house after Laurelin's light had waned. Neniel’s nose wrinkled up, and Maglor laughed. "Like I said. Not exactly impressive." 

“They’re hard to kill?” she asked, and then, frowning: “Oh. Is it the flea problem? Because they’re so small?”

“And fast. But more than that–” Maglor shrugged. “They’re remarkably resistant. To the point where it was almost proverbial among the Vanyar and the Noldor. ‘Rumours are as roaches: once they live, how shall you kill them?’ The Teleri had fewer problems with them, but they lived farther away from Laurelin, and I think roaches like heat. That’s probably why you’ve never encountered them here. It’s too cold by the Baranduin.”

“Do they taste any good?” Ráca wondered.

Maglor shook his head. “Celegorm tried. So did Ambarussa. Apparently, they tasted horrible.”

Neniel’s glance was amused as she looked over at him past her cousin. “Oh, and you would never try doing such a thing?”

“Nelyo once tricked me into eating snails! Raw snails! I wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice.”

“He and Neniel would have gotten along,” Ráca said, with feeling. Maglor’s eyebrows rose.

“I thought you liked snails?”

“I do,” Ráca said, “provided that they’re dead first.”

Maglor laughed again, and Neniel shrugged at her cousin, smiling. “You got your revenge soon enough,” she said.  

Ráca grinned, sharp and bright, and Maglor eyed her.

“What did you do?”

“I smeared fish glue all over her bowstring, right before she went out for a hunt,” Ráca said cheerfully. “She was furious.”

Maglor thought of the meticulous care that Neniel took with her bow and knife, and winced. “I can imagine.”

Neniel cast him a considering look. “Speaking of bows. Have you been practising with your present?”

Maglor grimaced. “Some. I still have a way to go, I think.”

“We’ll have to fix that,” Neniel said. “We could–”

“No.” Ráca’s voice was firm. “Tomorrow.”

“But we could–”

Ráca interrupted again. “Tomorrow night, we fix Iarwain’s archery. For now, we rest. It’s been a long day.”

Neniel sighed, but did not protest any further. Thank Eru. At least there was one person with her that she’d listen to, when she was told to slow down. Although it would only ever be temporary. Neniel had as much energy as Fëanor ever had, and even less of a need for sleep, aside from the winters. Not for the first time, Maglor wondered how Gil-galad would deal with her.

Probably quite creditably. Ereinion Gil-galad had, after all, had to deal with Ëonwë, Herald of Manwë, and all of the Maiar serving under his command. He could handle two river-daughters and a small group of Avari coming into Mithlond. And Gil-galad, unlike Maglor, had the advantage of a warning.

If he’d had any idea of how this year would turn out, would he have stayed by the beach?

Probably not. He would likely have packed up and retreated back into the woods, as quickly as he could. He had not been well; he had wanted to be alone with his grief. It had become almost like a crutch, like the thing that still gave him breath, like a twisted version of Rúmil’s theorem: I grieve, therefore, I am.

Perhaps it was just as well. Perhaps, even though the parting would be painful, it was for the best this way. If nothing else, it meant that Elrond would be able to visit.

“What are you thinking about?” Neniel’s voice, breaking the silence, soft and wondering.

“I’m feeling sorry for Gil-galad again.” Maglor grinned at her, deliberately teasing, and seconds later, he felt a nail flick along the back of his neck, just under his ear, and he gave a mock-yelp. “Ai! That was a compliment!”

“Liar,” Neniel said, voice filled with lazy affection. The downs were quiet, save for the hooves of the darmún moving like thunder across the hills, and the Elves singing lullabies to their children.

Stars, I’ll miss this. 

Well, sunsets were fleeting, too. That didn’t make them any less beautiful.   

---

The spring days ran on, full of singing lore rhymes with the Elflings, laughing with Eirien and Saelo, teasing Regen, and practising archery in the evenings with Neniel and Ráca. They were merciless taskmistresses, Maglor found, and by the end of practise each evening, long-unused muscles in his back, shoulders and arms were screaming with protest. It was a very good thing that Neniel was so gifted with songs to ease pain, because Maglor was quite sure that otherwise he would have had very limited movement in his arms after that first night of practise. But by the time the down hills had turned from green to white, old childhood skill had returned, and he was able to bring down game once more.

“You’ll be in Mithlond soon,” Maglor said, as he scrubbed his hands clean in a bowl of water. Neniel was already reaching for the map and unfurling it, blond brows already knitting closer together in concentration. “If you keep going on this course–” Maglor leaned in over her shoulder to look at the map as well. “No more than three days, if you go quickly. Five, if you take it slow…” his voice trailed off, as Neniel’s head twisted to look at him, and her cheek bumped his nose.

Oh. Mûk. 

Their faces were perhaps an inch apart, and Maglor swallowed. Her eyes were dark in the moonlight, and she wasn’t moving backwards. She was very still, as she stared back at him, until her tongue darted over her lower lip, and Maglor hastily shifted backwards, out of her personal space. The air was tense. He looked up at Tilion, instead of looking back at her. It seemed safer.

At last, her voice broke the silence that had fallen between them. “Where did you say you were going to meet Elrond, again?”

Her voice was lower than normal, almost husky. Maglor tried very hard to rein in his imagination, which was speculating wildly about other contexts in which her voice might reach that same depth.

“I’m sorry, I missed that,” he said. His voice was very nearly even.

“Where did you say you were going to meet Elrond?”

With a supreme effort, Maglor yanked his mind back to the map, squinting to see it, now that leaning in over Neniel’s shoulder was assuredly a terrible idea.

“The Ered Luin south of Mithlond,” Maglor said, tapping at the caves south of the last outcropping of hills before Mithlond. “That’s close enough that Elrond can go there without arousing suspicion. Good for an initial meeting point. I’ll probably go further south into the mountains for the winter, though, and get myself clear of Mithlond’s hinterland.”

“That could be wise,” Neniel said, frowning. “Then…” she stared down at the map. “We’re here,” she said, pointing down to the last cluster of hills. “It’d be about two days walk, to the caves.”

“If you took everyone, that would lengthen it out to another week. And you’re running low on vegetables and fruits.” Maglor shook his head. “It’s not practical for you to make that kind of detour. And the idea is to keep Iarwain ben-Adar’s location uncertain.”

“I wish…”

“I know,” Maglor said. “I know.”

“Tomorrow morning?”

“No sense in wasting time. Tonight.” Before my foolishness lands me in any greater trouble. Maglor stood, deliberately not looking in Neniel’s direction, and walked to where the Elflings and Regen were sitting around the fire, swapping tall tales of Mithlond, the scarier, the better.  He cleared his throat as he intruded on the game, and watched Regen’s face fall. She got to her feet, walked around the campfire, and pulled him into a hug that was nearly bruising.

“Ribs, Regen!”

The hug loosened a little, and she sighed against his chest. “You have to go, don’t you?”

“I’m sorry, Regen.”

She looked up at him, brown eyes swimming with confusion, with childish pain. “Can’t you just come with us and make things right?”

Maglor smiled at her, and set his hands on her shoulders, squeezing gently. “If I figure out a way to make things right, I will,” he said. “That’s an ‘if’, Regen. A big ‘if.’”

“But you’ll try.”

“If I see a way,” Maglor told her. “Look after your sister for me?”

Regen nodded, squaring her shoulders and stepping back out of the hug. Maglor broke the news to the children, and found himself trying to console two of the children he had played with and sung to and carried, little Merellin and her brother Celepilin. Well, Celepilin required consoling. Merellin’s response was to stamp hard on Maglor’s toes, cross her arms and declare emphatically that Iarwain was not leaving. Another ten minutes passed, in which Iarwain ben-Adar explained that he was most certainly leaving, and the subsequent temper tantrums was eventually soothed, when the children were rocked to sleep. By that point, Ráca, Saelo and Eirien had wandered over as well, and Maglor was pulled into more hugs, thankfully less fierce than Regen’s had been. When the last farewell was said, he picked his pack up, and slung it onto his back, whistling for Celenem. The hound rose, and trotted to Maglor’s side, and Maglor knelt, rubbing the fur along his neck.

“It’s going to be just you and me for a while, I’m afraid,” he told the dog. “Do you still want to come?”

Celenem shot him a very offended look, and sat down on Maglor’s left foot. Maglor chuckled, and rubbed behind his ears. “Alright, then. Foolish hound.”

The moon shone down as he walked south-west, and he was stopped a few times by a few other Elves who said farewell to him. They asked him where he was going, and Maglor drew on old skills and said something cheerful about new lands to the south and east to see, and wishing them good fortune in Mithlond. That had satisfied most of them.  

There was soft movement to his right, as he began climbing the next hill. Maglor glanced over and shook his head.

“I should have known better.”

He’d never successfully predicted her actions before, after all.

Neniel smiled and took his hand, and they walked southwest up the hill together, the soft grass bending beneath his boots, and the breeze rustling through their hair. As they walked, Maglor tentatively reached out with his mind, and tapped. For the first time that he’d known her, he was met with the sound of rushing waters, so loud it was nearly a roar, and Maglor winced. She squeezed his fingers, but the sound remained just as loud; she was hiding her thoughts. She was silent, which meant that she had something on her mind. She was holding his hand, which meant that she was not angry with him, since her typical reaction when she was angry was either to withdraw, or argue it out.

But she wasn’t happy, either, and Maglor was quite sure that that was his fault. Not that he could do much about it, though, since he couldn’t turn back time to the happiness of the afternoon, before she’d read his feelings all over his face.

“I’m so nervous.”

He shook his head, drawn from his thoughts. “You’ll be fine.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes,” he said. He squeezed her hand. “Yes, I do.”

As they came to the bottom of the hill, Neniel stopped, and Maglor stopped with her, spinning to face her.

She was smiling. Softly, a little sadly, but it was a smile hovering around her lips, nonetheless, as she trapped his right hand between hers.

“Did I ever say ‘thank you’?”

Maglor tilted his head back. “For what?”

“You taught me Sindarin.” Maglor snorted, shaking his head dismissively, but Neniel kept talking. “Really. I’ve been dreaming of doing this for a long while now, and…Galadriel doesn’t like to talk about the war. I’m not sure I would have been able to do this, if you hadn’t taught me what I needed to know. So I’m saying thank you.”

Maglor swallowed around the lump in his throat, around the relief that she was looking at him with that fond smile, instead of anger or disgust. “You’re very welcome, Neniel.”  

She looked at him for a long moment, and then stepped closer, her hands releasing his and  her arms winding around him. Her face pressed into his shoulder, and he dropped his chin to rest on top of her head, his arms encircling her back.

“I’m going to miss you.” It was whispered against his shoulder like a confidence.

“I’m going to miss you too.” Do you know how much, Nenya?

She was silent for a long while, as she leaned into him. “I don’t know when I’ll be able to visit.”

The sheer amount of hope that shot through his veins was embarrassing. Maglor tried and failed to keep his voice neutral.

“You were planning on visiting?”

Neniel’s eyes were surprised as she glanced up at him. “Oh, yes. Didn’t I tell you?”

Maglor shook his head.

“Ah. I am going to visit.” She grinned. “I have to complain to somebody. And if I don't visit, you might undo all my hard work.”

“Your hard work?”

“Hunting enough beasts to feed you up.” Her fingers flashed over his chest, and slapped teasingly at the flesh there, flesh and muscle where there had been bone and skin and not much else before. “See? So much hard work! I can’t just let you undo it.”

He caught her hands, and couldn’t quite stifle a laugh. “I think I’m capable of feeding myself. I did survive before you showed up.”

“Yes, you did,” she agreed. “Now you have to live.”

“I know.” A year ago, he would have argued it was the same thing. But he was not the shadow he had been at the beginning of last year. Somewhere along the line, he had chosen to live again.

Maglor realized that he was still holding her hands, and he dropped them. There was silence between them again, until Neniel leaned up, took his face in her hands, and tilted it down, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

“Take care of yourself, Maglor.”

“Keep an eye on Elrond for me,” he told her.

Neniel gave a short laugh, nodded, and waved her fingers in farewell, before she turned around and started back down the hill. Maglor whistled to Celenem, and kept walking southwest.

When he had walked down the slope to the bottom of the next hill, Maglor sat down and buried his head in his hands for a long minute.

Varda, it hurts. 

Not even a minute after saying goodbye, and he already missed her, already wanted to turn back and walk, run back up the hill after her, even though there were a dozen reasons why that was an idea so bad as to border on idiotic. Then again, he probably qualified for that distinction by now.

Maglor let the tears fall for a few minutes, his hands still firmly pressed to his face, until he felt the rough rasp of Celenem’s tongue against his fingers.

Maglor lowered his hands and Celenem whined, licking at the fingers again and wagging his tail madly as he sat beside Maglor. Maglor managed a shaky laugh.

“I’m supposed to cheer up, am I?”

The tail thumped against the grass in agreement.

“Alright, I’ll do my best, Celenem,” he said. “But you’ll have to forgive me the occasional lapse. I’m a bard. We don’t do ‘cheerful’ very well.”

Celenem’s expression could only be described as unimpressed.  

“I suppose I can try,” Maglor said, getting to his feet again, and walking southwest. “We can always try.”

A happy bark of agreement from Celenem, and Maglor laughed again, less shaky this time. “Come on. Let’s go find a stream. You’ve gotten my fingers all sticky.” 

---

Regen was quiet as they bedded down together that night, her sleeping mat sandwiched between Ráca’s and Neniel’s. But then, she had liked Maglor too, so that was not surprising. Even Tauren had come around to Maglor, after he made her that new tool to sand her creations smooth.

“Neniellë?”

She sounded much younger than thirty-five. Neniel snuggled closer, responding reflexively to the tremble in her voice.

“Mm?”

“I’m sorry it didn’t – he couldn't – I liked Iarwain.” 

The tone was almost plaintive as the awkward words came out, and Neniel's eyes burned. She kissed Regen on the forehead, and whispered, “So did I.” Still did, if it came to that. Otherwise, her eyes wouldn't be burning so fiercely. 

Ráca snuggled in closer to Regen, and sighed. “Maybe you can go see him in the winter,” Ráca suggested. “When everyone is settled in Mithlond…we’ll need to go somewhere new, when we go running.”

“Maybe,” Neniel said, combing Regen’s hair back from her face, and taking some comfort in the motion. “Maybe.”

“Can I come with you both? When it comes time to start running?” Regen asked.

“Maybe,” Neniel repeated. She mustered a smile for her sister. “You’ll have to work on your stamina, if you want to do that. But we can do that. In the morning.”

“In the morning,” Ráca agreed, before she began humming the opening bars of a lullaby, one that Neniel remembered from her earliest moments. Ataro had sung this to her, as she opened her eyes and blinked up at the starlit trees on the river-bank. It was the song that Neniel would sing to her own children, when the time came. If the time ever came.

Neniel pushed that thought away, in favour of the sight of starlight reflected in her cousin’s song, in the patter of rain echoing through the cadence, and closed her eyes.

Maybe she would feel better in the morning.

 

---

Chapter End Notes

1. Will Dînen ever stop being fascinated by heartbeats? Doubtful. Very doubtful. 

2. Dînen is neglecting to mention that lots of species of salmon die after they return to their spawning grounds, but then, I think she still has some difficulty with exact scale in her metaphors. 

3. Teeth-cleaning twigs are a thing. Birch is one of the species wiki notes as being used for it. 

4. I felt we were due for another round of dangerous wildlife. So, I went hunting through the Internet and found this delightful thing. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aurochs#Habitat_and_distribution
Downlands is grazing country, and grazing country should mean grazing animals. I figure that there were lots of species still around in the Second Age, especially in the early days prior to Númenorean deforestation. 

5. Does the Blessed Realm contain cockroaches? Well, speaking as an Australian, if your light source is more intense than the sun, then that's going to have some effect on your wildlife. Of course, this tempts me to write a cracky one-shot where Aman, instead of being the Blessed Realm, was, from a flora and fauna perspective, a Death World. But alas. The spirit of canon implies that there had to be some kind of safety there, for the Darkening to affect them so.

6. Darmún, Kindi, my invention again. Adapted from Sindarin 'daer', big, and 'mund', bull. 

7. Rúmil as Descartes? Well, possibly not the mathematical side of his work. But "I think, therefore I am" sounds like a very Noldor way of approaching existential questions!

8. I will admit, I feel slightly guilty about doing this to Maglor and Neniel. 

...Not much, though. 

9. Merellin: adapted from Sindarin 'merilin', nightingale. Celepilin: swift-arrow. Yes, their mother is a hunter. 

Mithlond

In which Neniel meets Ereinion Gil-galad and goes into culture shock. Meanwhile, Maglor is definitely not moping.

Read Mithlond

Mithlond lived up to its name, Neniel thought. A fog was rolling onto the Lhûn, turning the air grey and misty, so different to the mouth of the Brown River, where the air was clear and the water shone green and blue. Through the fog, she could see the city, all made of white stone. The city perched across the narrowest part of the Gulf, with a great bridge that arched across the narrow Gulf, and on each side, it was shaped like semi-circle, like a halved apple, with walled perimeters on the northern and southern edges.

No point in lingering half an hour away from the gates, though. They’d need to eat soon, and it would be best if they had the rest of the day to get settled into the city.  

Beside her, Ráca squeezed her hand. “I think it’s time.”

Neniel nodded. “Yes, I think so.”

She cast an eye back over her people. The parents were busy trying to manage the Elflings, who were running everywhere; the eldest Elves, about six of them, who had been born by Cuiviénen, were looking back at her, their expressions calm and their eyes alight with anticipation. No need to worry there. It was the remaining forty that might be a problem, as they looked to her, practically vibrating with eagerness and nervousness.

None of you are helping, she thought wryly, before taking a deep breath and listening to the deep rumble of the Lhûn. Her hand twitched, as though reflexively searching for warm, strong fingers, and she turned it into a motion to adjust the choker at her throat. Helado would probably murder her, if he found out that she’d met Gil-galad without wearing the outfit he had crafted for the occasion, but it would have been nice to have Maglor’s charm at her throat at that moment.

Maglor himself by her side would have been good, too. 

I wish you were here. 

He had been her sole companion for half of the past year, and a constant shadow at her side the other half, there nearly every time she turned around, with warm hands squeezing hers, reassuring words, and helpful advice. And then, after a moment where her blood had sung in her veins, and he had been so terribly, wonderfully close, he had left.

She didn’t blame him. But she was still a little surprised at how much she missed him.

Enough, Ráca said, sensing the turn of her thought. There’s no point dwelling on it. 

Neniel sighed, nodding in agreement. She didn’t want to see her cousin’s expression – it would either be exasperated, or worse, it would be sympathetic, and she would want to cry – so she did not open her eyes.

Mithlond is right there. Something you have wanted to see, for years, she reminded herself.

And she still did. She did. She just had to concentrate.

When she opened her eyes, she started singing an old Kindi ditty, a lover’s quarrel between the moss and the stone, and she felt the voices of her band pick up the harmonies, the sound of their feet on the grass forming the percussive line, as they walked up to the hill to the gates, which were open, not closed. The fog was dissipating, at such a speed that Neniel suspected one of the Noldor was speaking to it.

They want to see us coming. 

She let the last notes of the song fade away, and looked to the gates. There was Elrond, out the front, black hair braided back from his face in tiny, intricate rows, and his smile was friendly as he nodded at her. The Elf to his left was a few inches taller, with equally dark hair, and the same nose and cheekbones as Maglor. He wore a silver crown, set with shining blue stones, a sparkling blue earring in his right ear, and a deep-blue linen shirt, with silver stars and curling waves embroidered on it.

Ereinion Gil-galad.

There were several other Elves, to Gil-galad’s left, who were all dressed in fine fabrics that were paler shades of blue and grey. Family on Gil-galad’s mother’s side, perhaps?

Elrond and Gil-galad were both stepping forward, and Neniel smiled back, as she came to a stop. A distance of about ten feet meant there was enough space for all of her people to see that she’d stopped, and follow suit. Behind her, she heard the sounds of excited Elflings’ chatter, and their parents’ frantically trying to hush them. Gil-galad’s smile widened as he looked behind Neniel, and saw the Elflings, before his gaze slid back to hers.

Steady and smiling, grey as the clouds, but not filled with either the radiance she had seen in Galadriel’s gaze, or the mingled brilliance and shadow that she had seen in Maglor’s eyes. They were like the eyes of anyone born among the Kindi, even if they were grey instead of brown, hazel or black. Assessing, also, but she could hardly judge him for that, considering that she was doing exactly the same thing. She tipped her head to the side in silent inquiry. What comes now?  

Greetings, usually. Elrond’s dry, sardonic interjection reminded her so much of Maglor she almost flinched, as she glanced at him. She was supposed to go first? Alright, she’d do her best.

“Mae l’ovannen, Ereinion Gil-galad,” she said. “High King of the Noldor.”

“Mae l’ovannen,” Gil-galad said, his smile widening. “It is a pleasure to meet you and your people, Neniel Dîneniel.” He lifted an arm in a sweeping gesture, indicating the city behind him. “Be welcome to Mithlond!”

---

She was pleased that the Elflings listened when she firmly told them to hold hands, and that nobody was to wander off until permission was granted. After that, everything else was easy: the hounds were called to heel, the tôthu remained in their harnesses, and the Kindi came into the city. Gil-galad, for his part, gave orders in a quick, lilting dialect that she couldn’t understand, and sent the lieutenants scattering, before he and Elrond fell into step alongside Neniel’s left. As he did, he began peppering Neniel with questions. Their woods were by the Baranduin? Where along the course? How long had they lived there? How long had they travelled to get here? What had made them come to Mithlond now?

That last question made Elrond’s eyes narrow fractionally above his friendly smile, but Neniel smiled at both High King and Herald, as the ellyn led them around a left turn, into a new road. It spilled down towards the west, with an enormous building up ahead on their left, easily the size of six longhouses put together. Stars and spiders, how long had that taken them to build? It wasn’t wood that could be put up and packed down in a day. That was stone.

 “Well, I was planning on doing this a few decades ago,” Neniel admitted honestly, not bothering to hide her wonder. Let it show. Mithlond was strange and stony and so entirely different to what she had imagined. “Then my parents announced I should expect another sister.” Her smile widened, as she jerked her thumb to Regen behind her, looking about in astonishment, with her hounds trotting at her heels. The hounds appeared to be the least disconcerted by their new surroundings, although they were shooting Regen pleading looks and whining for permission to go and explore all the new smells. So far, Regen was holding them in check. “That’s her, there, Regen, my youngest sister. I wanted to wait and see her grow up a bit first. But when she did, then nothing at all would do except that she come along too!”

“It’s your own fault, Neniel,” Ráca said brightly, sensing her deliberate shift towards a more casual tone and following suit. “You kept feeding her stories of the journeys you’d made through the Great Wood.”

“Why did I let you be my second?” Neniel asked, as they walked down the road. The breeze rolled in off the Lhûn, over the wall that divided the walkway from the sandy river-bank, and tugged at the braided crown of her hair. Elrond gestured to a stair on their right, which led down onto the bank of the Lhûn. His smile had widened at her mock-exasperated question, and that made her feel a flash of relief. She wanted to get along with Gil-galad’s herald, almost as much as she wanted to get along with Maglor’s foster son.

“Let me be your second?” Ráca grinned, as she slid her shoes off and started down the stone steps. “I’m self-appointed, cousin. Did you forget?”

“So I did.” Neniel turned and smiled back at the High King. “You’ll have to excuse us, your Majesty. I’d say we’re not normally like this, but that would be lying.”

Gil-galad laughed, a warm sound that was horribly like his cousin's. He was not sliding his shoes off. He wore some kind of shoe that covered the soles of his feet, but left the tops exposed, save for a band that circled around his toes. Interesting design. “There is no need for excuses! I have cousins too. And you can call me Gil-galad.” He glanced back at her people. “Some of them are currently organising some refreshments for your people, and Elrond has arranged quarters for all of you as well. I hope you haven’t just eaten.”

“Not since sunrise. Thank you very much, your – Gil-galad," she amended, at his raised eyebrows. She gestured to her people, beckoning them down onto the river bank, and called out for them to loose the dogs, and start relaxing. She spoke in Sindarin, for now. They were all fluent enough that it should not pose a problem, and it would not be polite to speak in Kindi in front of Gil-galad. At least, she didn’t think it would be polite to speak in Kindi in front of him.

I didn’t ask Maglor nearly enough questions.

Gil-galad waved her thanks away with a graceful, dismissive flick of his hand. “Would you indulge my curiosity on something?”

“I can hardly do otherwise, since you are indulging mine so graciously!” she replied, gesturing to the city that he had just granted her entry to. Gil-galad’s smile widened. 

“Your Sindarin doesn’t have an accent I’d expect to hear from the iathrim at all. It’s almost Exilic. Yet Elrond said that you had dealings with the iathrim around Lake Nenuial.”

It could be an innocuous question, she thought, Maglor’s wry words about execution suddenly echoing in the back of her mind. Elrond was there. Elrond had arranged to meet Maglor, so, presumably, he wanted him to stay alive. That meant it probably was an innocuous question.

And if she kept her composure, there was no reason that she knew of that it should not stay innocuous.

Never swim against the current. Better to swim with it, or across it.

 “More than some dealings,” Neniel said, her tone pleasant and her smile in place. “The map that we used to navigate here was made by the Lady Celebrían, daughter of Galadriel. I believe she’s your cousin, is she not?”

“She is. So is Elrond.” Gil-galad’s eyes had narrowed, ever so slightly, but whether that was because it had not been an innocuous question, or because of something else entirely, she couldn’t begin to assess.

“Through Finwë, yes?” The exact degree of knowledge she held about Finwë’s descendants didn’t have to be told all at once.

“Yes, indeed.” Gil-galad’s smile turned wryer at the mention of his great-grandfather.

“I’ll have to introduce you to Mistinda. She was of the same generation as Finwë, I think, at Cuiviénen.” So was Orobenë. A few others, too. And that reminded her… “If I may, Gil-galad, I have something of a favour to ask of you.”

“Oh?” Gil-galad’s eyes sharpened, but he didn’t say anything else.

“Is the Lord Círdan in Lindon at the moment?”

“In Forlond. Do you need to speak with him?”

She nodded. “Not urgently. But I thought I’d ask. My father has a message for him that he asked me to bring it.”

Gil-galad’s eyes sharpened even further, but he did not press her. “It can certainly be arranged. For now, though, would you like to sit?”

“Please give me a moment, Gil-galad.” The Elflings were looking around their surroundings, still clinging to their parents’ hands, and the parents were looking adrift. That won’t do. She stepped a few paces away from the knot, and let out a nightingale’s call. The Elflings approached, the older ones looking relieved. Ah. The older ones wanted to know what their new boundaries were. Clever pups.

She crouched to speak to the younger Elflings better, carefully keeping her skirt free of the sand. Spider silk was so lovely to wear, so soft and fine against her skin, but such a wretch to clean.

“Children, we’re going to stay on the river bank for a little while. If you want to play on the sand, that’s alright, but no going in the water until I’ve spoken to it, and your parents agree to go in with you.” There were solemn nods of understanding from the Elflings, and she smiled at them. “Alright. Stay in ear-shot; there’ll be food soon. For now, you’re free to play.” She reached out and poked Merellin in the forehead. “You’re the otter. Go!”

Merellin grinned, and turned, but the other children were already scattering. Merellin gave brave pursuit as she set off after them.  

“Otters?” Gil-galad asked curiously, and Neniel smiled back at him.

“A game we play. The otters have to chase the fish, and when they catch them – usually by tapping them somewhere on their body – the fish are out of the game. The last fish to remain uncaught wins.”

Gil-galad laughed. “I played a similar thing in Hithlum as a child. We called it a different name, but the principle was the same.”

“What did you call it?” Neniel asked. Gil-galad’s lieutenants were walking down the street, and behind them, were about twelve more men and women, dressed in fine clothes dyed bright colours, reds and blues and pale greens. They were carrying baskets on their hips.

“We called it Elves and Orcs,” Gil-galad said, with a wry smile.

“Ah, I see.” And that was a horribly uncomfortable thought, as she remembered goblins scurrying east across her forest under starlight. She and the other hunters had shot and killed as she would shoot a wild boar, any predator that was aggressive to the point of it becoming kill or be killed. But if the Orcs were like Uncle Ossë, twisted out of key once…was it so inevitable, so irreversible as the otter consuming the fish? Was it so set in stone, that there could be hope for a Maia, or for a Kinslayer, but not an Elf who had been taken by the Rider?

Is there no choice left for them?

Gil-galad had noticed her reaction, but he did not speak of it. “Your Elflings look quite contented,” he said, gesturing to where the children were running east up the river bank. The sounds of squealing and laughter were already rising from their group. “Did you want to speak to the Lhûn while they were already occupied?”

And that would also be a good idea. She nodded, shooting him a grateful smile, and let Ráca start asking him questions about how Mithlond had been built, while she walked down the river bank.  The sour look Helado would give her for ruining his beautiful present didn’t bear thinking about, Neniel thought, glancing down at her skirt again. So instead of wading in, she stepped onto the surface of the water, and closed her eyes, as she searched the water for the Lhûn’s Maia.

 She felt movement and sound, a thrum against her soul, and a voice calling out, a presence brushing against her mind and heart-

child?

Unlike Ossë or Uinen, the Maia of the Lhûn did not take the form of an Elf. Her body was water, shining transparent blue in the sunlight, as she took the shape of an otter. She moved towards Neniel in a ripple, before she rose on her hind legs and pressed one liquid paw against Neniel’s hand in greeting, her strength brushing against the edges of Neniel’s mind, lapping and probing. And then, she smiled, not with fangs, but with a ripple of water, and roared a greeting, from elder spirit to younger spirit, greater water to lesser water. Neniel felt the river’s spirit wrap around hers, as a great river cradled a lesser tributary, and swallowed down the lump that surfaced in her throat, squashed down the sudden longing for her mother that threatened to wrench through her.

Honoured Aunt, Neniel said. The Lhûn rippled in amusement and surprised, startled joy. May I introduce you to my people’s children?

Lhûn assented, and so Neniel turned, threaded her voice with power to carry over the distance, and called for the children to come down to her in the shallows. It took them a few minutes to all run back down to where she stood, but they splashed into the shallows, the water lapping around their ankles, as Neniel introduced each of them to the river by name. Lhûn was very friendly, and splashed each child with a ripple of water, drawing shrieks from the children. Neniel had to hum to keep the water from landing on her skirts, drawing the water into the air. Eirien was running down the bank again towards the children, and Neniel decided that they were probably safe enough that she could walk back to Gil-galad. She left Lhûn to where she was playing with the Elflings, and skirted them, far away that she no longer had to turn the stray droplets into moisture in the air, and walked back up the shoreline. Before she reached the knot of Elves, she took a deep breath, and closed her eyes, then opened them again.

“I take it that all is settled?” Elrond asked, as she sat down on Ráca’s left. Gil-galad’s lieutenants – who shared some of his features, now that she looked closer – and the Elves who had brought the food were sitting down, now. Many of them wore fine rings around their arms, or jewellery at their throat and ears, and her hand went up to adjust her choker again.

“Yes, all is settled with the River,” she said. “Lhûn recognises me as kin, so that helps, some.” Elrond’s face twitched at that, and she wasn’t at all sure how to read that. She fell back on changing the subject. “But either I have a terrible memory for faces, or I didn’t meet most of you earlier…”

“The latter, I’m afraid,” Elrond said, face smoothed again into friendliness. He gestured to one of the Elves on the far side. He had grey eyes, dark hair, and looked very familiar. “Allow me to remedy that.” Elrond’s eyes sparkled with sudden mischief as he gestured at one of the Elves on the far side, who wore a silver tunic, and an eight-pointed star blazoned on it, an emblem she had last seen burned into Maglor’s right hand. “This is Celebrimbor Curufinwion, leader of the House of Fëanor in Mithlond.”

Neniel didn’t let her smile waver for a second, as she nodded at Maglor’s nephew who had the same bright, bright grey eyes as his uncle. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Commenting on the resemblance she could see between him and his uncle, or expressing how glad she was to meet him and to see him well, would be very impolitic. So Neniel swallowed back the yearning, and let her attention drift to the woman beside Celebrimbor.

She had grey eyes, too.

Oh, stars and spiders!

---

 “Do you think this will do?”

Celenem trotted around the cave, his tail up, as he snuffled along the edges of it. Maglor set his hand to the stone, calling on old lessons as he felt the rock, the strength of the crystals above him, the layers of the stone expanding with Vása’s warmth above them. Celenem’s curling tail was wagging softly, and his ears were up, so he did not smell any dangerous in there.

So that was shelter. That would be enough for the pair of them, although it would be cramped if more than one person decided to visit at once. But that did not seem at all likely. Besides, if Neniel wanted to visit, she would probably take to sleeping in the trees again.  

Firewood, next, and a water source.

He set his pack down in the cave, and withdrew the water-skins, before ducking to leave the cave. Celenem’s claws clicked against the rock, as he followed after Maglor. There were thrushes singing in the groves of the forest, and Maglor sang back to them as he walked south, drumming a rhythm on the water-skins.

Perhaps an hour passed before Maglor heard the chuckling of a stream running over stone, and the rushing sound of a water-fall. Not a large fall, it was not loud enough for that, but a fall, nonetheless. He turned towards the sound, and walked towards it. The trees did not thin out as he walked, and the woods continued to rustle, with the small sound of game going about its business. Celenem’s tail was wagging gently, and his ears were pricked forward in alert interest, but Maglor whistled a command for him to stay at his side, and the hound obeyed, even while giving Maglor a disappointed look. Maglor shrugged at him. They could see to catching dinner after they’d found a reasonable water source.

Maglor stepped out beyond the last tree, a great willow, whose leaves dangled in the fast-flowing water of the stream. It began from a spring high up on the slopes, and ran down the surface, until it fell over a lip of rock, and created a small, quickly-flowing brook there. Less than six feet wide, and not more than three feet deep. Neniel would have called it a rivulet, and sat down to dangle her feet in the water, even if it was freezing cold.

He uncapped the water-skins and knelt upstream of Celenem to fill them. The dog was already happily lapping at the cool, clear water, and splashing in it. If he missed his litter-mates or was regretting his decision, it was certainly not apparent.

It had been the correct decision. He’d known it, and she had known it too. He’d had to leave, before they did anything foolish. But it felt strange, walking through the woods without her voice humming harmonies around his, or translating the words of the trees for him.

I wonder how she’s finding Mithlond?

The pain of the parting had dulled a bit, over the past few days, like a bruise with the swelling slowly receding. But it still ached and gnawed at him, when he forgot to avoid thinking of her, and he had a horrible suspicion that time would only help so much.

But he had resolved to not do that, he thought, frowning. At the downs. The year might have been as fleeting as a sunset, as temporary as the Long Peace. But it was still a good year, and worth remembering.

He pulled the water-skins out, set them down beside him, and let the song of the stream wash over him. It was not as good as listening to Neniel’s presence in osanwë, but it would have to do, until the hazy someday of her promise to visit came along.  

---

The quarters that Elrond had arranged were not longhouses. She’d known that they would be different, but it still felt startling to step inside and feel stone under her feet instead of dirt, and to see stone above her head instead of hardened slats and poles of birch and ash. They were not concentrated together, but so far, no family was without at least one other family in the same building as them. She had to carefully mark out landmarks to remember where the buildings housing her people were. It was harder, without trees and birdsong and root systems there; she had to use little detailing in the stone, the fine carvings on the eaves, to differentiate the buildings. Elrond didn’t seem to have any difficulty, as he led her and Ráca and Regen up a flight of steps, into a corridor. He stopped at the second door on the left, and opened the door. Regen’s hounds surged in, with a round of barking, and Regen hurriedly hushed them; the barks echoed off the stone unpleasantly.

The room was about as big as the kitchen back home, Neniel noted. Furniture like in the houses of the iathrim, with an elegant, low table – not low enough to kneel at, like the tables of the fen Men, but still low – and a sofa and an arm-chair in around the table. A fire-place, as in Galadriel’s house. And on the left side of the room, another door that must lead into the bedroom. Apparently, the concept of a sitting room and a sleeping room was a point of confluence for Noldorin and iathrim culture. Had that always been the case, or had it been something that happened while both cultures were living side-by-side, at the Havens and on Balar?

“Neniel?”

She snapped back. “I’m sorry, I missed that.”

“I said that I hoped you found this suitable.”

“Yes, thank you,” she said, smiling at him. He really had been a wonderful host for most of the day, but it felt a little odd, talking to him sometimes. As though he felt awkward around her, uncertain in a way that she normally associated with adolescents, even though he covered it well. And yet, he did not seem the kind of Elf to be given to uncertainty, or a habit of second-guessing himself. So it had to be related to her somehow. “The rooms are lovely.” And strange and confusing, but that feeling of shock would fade. She was nearly certain of it.

Finrod and I agreed on a term for it, at Mereth Aderthad. We called it ‘culture shock.’ 

“It was the least I could do.” He hesitated, mouth opening as though he were about to speak, and then it closed again. Regen had already toed off her shoes, and was walking into the bedroom, and Ráca was holding her hand out for Neniel’s pack. “Can we speak privately, for a moment?”

…Why? What did he have to say that could not be said in front of Ráca and Regen?

She nodded and handed Ráca her pack, giving her cousin her best ‘listen to me’ look when she looked dubious. Ráca rolled her eyes, but walked into the bedroom. Elrond walked to the door after Ráca pulled it closed behind her, and set a word for silence on it. Neniel raised both eyebrows at him, as he opened his mouth and closed it again.

“It seems a bit odd to set a word for silence, and then not speak candidly.”

Elrond smiled at that, wry and amused. “You have a point. Alright. How long was Maglor with your people?”

“Six months,” she said. “But most of them know him by another name. I only introduced him by his first name once, and he didn’t talk to many people. They were a bit intimidated by his accent.”

Judging by the way Elrond’s eyebrows were rising, he did not follow.

“His…accent.”

“Yes. Maglor has a very pronounced accent, when he speaks in Kindi. His words are very clipped. It can make him sound brusque. So he didn’t talk to many people, until I smoothed the way.”

“Ah,” Elrond said, nodding. “And are your people likely to mention him?”

“Possibly,” Neniel said, slowly. “He got along very well with the children, so most of their parents know him. If you hear someone referring to Eldest and Fatherless, then they are referring to him.”

“Eldest and fatherless?” Elrond repeated, incredulous. “Maglor re-named himself eldest and fatherless?” 

Neniel smiled. “No, he protested. Quite fiercely.” She shrugged, letting her memory drift back to that conversation. “He implied that it would be unwise for us to discuss him in Mithlond. That Gil-galad would…react negatively.”

Elrond did not wince as he saw the memory, but he did sigh. “Gil-galad would prefer to let him fade from the history of the Noldor, I think,” he said. “It’s easier, that way. When he and I look far ahead, we see a shadow rising in the East. He does not wish to alienate any allies, and relations between the Noldor and the Sindar can be…difficult.” Sindar, she noticed. He uses the Quenya term.“And nobody has forgotten the wounds of the First Age. But Gil-galad does not wish for any more death, either.”

Fair reasoning. Hard on Maglor, to be exiled from this city that he would love so much, and his son. But fair. She could understand it. And besides…

“I sense it too,” she said. “Sometimes. In the water, that strain of the Music…it’s not done, yet. Diminished, but not done. ”

There it was again, that twitch in Elrond’s face, before it smoothed out into a solemn expression. Solemnity came to him as easily as smiling.

“Indeed. So, Gil-galad wishes good will between the Noldor and the Sindar and the Ava– the Kindi.”

Neniel nodded, politely ignoring the slip. “I understand. It makes sense. If what I’m hearing is correct, then…there’s a group of the Men to the East. They talk about cutting the wood while it’s still daylight. Making things better, while we still can. Stopping division before it starts.”

 Elrond smiled. “Iarwain ben-Adar. Very useful. I can see no harm in the Kindi being on friendly terms with Iarwain ben-Adar. Whose idea was it?”

“Mine.” That made Elrond look startled, before he smiled slowly.

“I think that you and I are going to get along well,” he said. “One last thing. Gil-galad was wondering if you would like to sail with him up to Forlond next week, when he goes to visit Círdan?”

“That sounds lovely,” Neniel said brightly. “What’s a week?”

Elrond’s mouth opened, closed again, before his eyes narrowed, and again, a slow smile spread across his face. “Nice try.”

She laughed. “It took your father much longer to catch on!” Elrond’s smile turned fixed, and Neniel froze. Oh… “I’m sorry, did I mis-step?”

Elrond shrugged. “You’re the first person to say it out loud.”

She blinked. “But surely he–” Son whom I never sired, had been his first thought, when he thought about Elrond.

“Never called himself our foster father, no.” Elrond sighed. “Although I told him he had been as a second father to us. Don’t apologise. It is complicated, but…you’re the first person who has not assumed or wondered that being raised by Fëanorions was a tragic experience, marked by every kind of deprivation and ill treatment.”

Neniel blinked again. “Maglor is many things. He is tired, worn by darkness, shadowed. And he is not harmless. But…” The pride and love in his thought about Elrond and Elros, the joyful memory of teaching them to bake, the way he was so good with her sisters, especially Regen… “I can sooner imagine a star falling from the sky than I can imagine him abusing a child who has come into his care.”

Elrond’s smile at that was wry, but all he said was: “It’s odd, isn’t it?”

This could be treading on painful ground, but Elrond deserved to have it said, and there was no kinsman left to help Maglor with the mess he'd made of things. “He’s looking forward to seeing you again.”

Elrond’s smile turned polite, and she was not surprised when he wished her a pleasant night, and told her that he had to go and attend to Gil-galad. But she did sigh, after the door closed after him.

I’ll try, Maglor. I’ll try.

 

---

Chapter End Notes

1. Mae l'ovannen: Well-met, formal, Sindarin. 

2. The 'slip' that Neniel refers to when talking to Elrond is the fact that the 'Avari' means the 'refusers', and most of the Kindi think it's a touch impolite for people to use that term, instead of Kindi. But then, they really can't talk, since they're prone to using the term 'deserters' if not being strictly reminded that that's impolite as well. xD 

3. On Gil-galad having cousins: hey, he had to have a mother. My head canon is that Gil-galad's mother was one of the Falathrim, and I go with Fingon as his father, which is why his shirt has silver stars and blue waves on it, and also why he has a blue earring. Because the Falathrim wear earrings, and nobody can convince me otherwise. Yes, Círdan has a beard and an earring. Studs, usually; one stud is for an unmarried Elf, and two studs for a married Elf. I blame this on bunn.  

Epilogue

In which Elrond gets a hug, Maglor is teased, and we get a glimpse of the Kindi in Mithlond.

Read Epilogue

The first indication Maglor had of someone approaching his cave was the sound of hoofbeats on the forest floor. Celenem’s ears went up, and his mouth opened to the scent.

“No,” Maglor told him, setting down the bowl he was carving. Not done yet, but he could finish it later. “It’s not prey.”

Celenem’s look was pleading, but Maglor tapped his nose sternly. “No. We went hunting yesterday, remember?” He went to the mouth of the cave and whistled him to his heel. “You’re about to meet a very old friend of mine. Behave, and be nice.” 

Celenem’s tail wagged tentatively at the word ‘friend.’ He was not quite as sociable as the hounds that Ambarussa had bred, in East Beleriand, but Regen had trained him well.

The hoof-beats were closer, now, louder, a steady trot. Maglor stepped into the afternoon sunlight at the top of the hill, and then into the shade of the great elm tree that dominated the small summit of the hill.

He looked well. Very well, actually. He was wearing his hair braided back from his face, in a long, neat tail; his clothes were plain for riding, but were well made, and in good fabric. He had a bow slung across his saddle, and a quiver over his shoulder. Possibly his pretext for leaving Mithlond had been that he felt like going hunting? The horse was lovely, too, a long-legged bay with an easy stride. Maglor glanced at Celenem. The dog was still staring at the horse, a growl rumbling in his throat.

“No,” Maglor said, ringing his voice with a shimmer of power, barely a breath to another Elf, but with the force of a great wind for a dog. “Not prey. If you can’t live with that, you can go and chase rabbits, and come back when they’re gone.” 

Cowed, at least briefly, Celenem’s ears went back, and his tail-wag was very, very tentative. Good. Elrond did not deserve for Maglor’s dog to try and eat his horse. 

Elrond dismounted from his horse, and led him up the hill. Maglor got to his feet.

“You look well,” Maglor said to him. 

The glance that Elrond cast him was considering, but Maglor thought there might be a faint smile in his eyes. “So do you. I was worried.” Elrond glanced down at Celenem, and knelt, holding his hands out for Celenem to sniff. Maglor murmured encouragement to the hound, and tentatively, Celenem snuffled Elrond’s hands, and then licked them, before sitting down.  “Who’s this?” 

“This is Celenem. A gift from Regen, Neniel’s little sister. He’s been helping look after me.” 

“Good.” 

Maglor eyed him a little. That things between them were stilted was not a surprise, considering the way he had abandoned Elrond after his brother’s death. The odd thing was that Elrond appeared to sincerely mean it, when he said that it was good. Maglor took down the first layer of his defences, and let that thought glimmer on the surface.

Elrond looked a little sheepish, which was absolutely not what Maglor had wished. “I was furious,” Elrond admitted. “If you’d appeared in the room with me in Mithlond, instead of contacting me through the water, I probably would have punched you, then and there.” 

Maglor spread his hands, palms out. “If you want to try that now, I won’t dodge.” He’d deserve that and more, from Elrond. Really, a punch would be getting off lightly. 

Elrond’s smile was wry. “Your hound looks like he’d take offence, if I did.” 

Maglor considered that, and nodded. “He’s bred for tackling aggressive bear and boar, and I’ve had to convince him not to bite your horse. The chances don’t look good.”

“In that case, I’d prefer to remain un-mauled. And I don’t actually want to punch you, in any case…” Elrond turned to his horse, and removed the headstall, and the horse nickered, rubbing its head against Elrond’s shoulder.  Then Elrond unfastened the bellyband, and set them down on the grass, telling the horse that it could wander a little. Then he turned back to Maglor, and stepped forward. 

“I’m glad to hear it. I promised myself I’d do this,” Maglor told him, and he stepped forward, closing the distance, before he wrapped Elrond in a hug. Elrond was stiff for a moment, before he slowly relaxed. His head rested against Maglor’s shoulder, and he let out a long, shaky breath. For a long moment, neither of them said anything. In the elm tree overhead, there was a blackbird warbling, its song liquid. 

Then Elrond stepped back, and so did Maglor. Elrond spoke again, as he took the bag off his shoulder, and set it down on the grass as well. “I don’t think I’ve forgiven you entirely yet. But…I also think I knew why you did it.” Elrond’s smile was slight, as he shook his head, sitting down. “You and Maedhros both did it, sometimes. You’d…withdraw, and I would never understand why, when I was young.” Maglor swallowed, went to speak, and then thought better of it, as Elrond went on. “There are wounded people in Lindon. Heart-sick people, who do not think that Valinor will offer healing to them. They do the same thing, sometimes. Vanish for days on end. Sometimes, they leave word. Other times, they don’t. Of course, usually, they don’t vanish beyond their family’s ability to search for them.” Maglor winced. Elrond took a water skin out of the bag, and drank from it. “I did say I hadn’t entirely forgiven you.” Elrond drank again, and then sighed. “I will eventually, though.” 

“You have a very long track record of that, among other unwise decisions,” Maglor said. “But then, I am the last person who should opine about wisdom! I believe I owed you a campfire?” 

“Among other things.” 

Maglor resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. He had earned that, and hints more pointed, besides. “True, but I’ve made a start on this demand already. Give me ten minutes.” Maglor went to the cave, and picked up some of the stacked logs by the entrance. “I caught a nice trout in the stream this morning. No eel, I’m afraid. So that’s food.” He set the logs down on the grass. “And I have plenty of stories from the last year, of what I’ve been up to. Most of it didn’t even involve endless lamentation, or tears unnumbered.” 

That made Elrond laugh, and Maglor smiled to hear it, as he walked back to the cave and took the trout down from where he had fastened it to a stalactite. 

“I brought wine, to make the telling of it easier,” Elrond offered. 

“Did you?” Maglor grinned at him. “Excellent. This is turning into a very good day.”

---

Elrond whistled, as Maglor came to the end of the story of the past year. Strategically abridged, but Maglor had left all of the relevant bits in. “Ulmo’s ears!” He shook his head, turning Maglor’s palm over. “Well, considering all the people in the world who could have found you by that estuary, it could have been much worse.” 

Maglor considered that briefly, and nodded. “She was clever about it.” About his illness, about charming him, about insisting that she needed a tutor for Sindarin, rather than him needing company. She’d even managed to make that sound fairly convincing to him at the time, which was impressive. 

“She is clever. Impressively strong, too. I don’t know that I could have done this.” Elrond tapped the scar on Maglor’s palm.  

“Give yourself time. She’s had much longer to practise. But you’re right, she is strong. Especially with anything to do with water. I think that’s how she heals, through the water in the body…I don’t know about holding people’s wills to hers, though. I think her way of getting things done might be pure charm, rather than power of voice.” 

“Mm. If it works, it works.” Elrond smiled. “I’m glad. She seems very good for you. And she makes you happy.”

Maglor had taken a sip of wine while Elrond spoke, and he found himself abruptly choking on it. Elrond leaned over and pounded his back. Maglor caught his breath, and took another sip of wine, more cautiously, as he hunted for words. “We’re not…”

“No? The way you looked at her certainly suggested it.” Elrond swigged from his cup. “I’ve never seen you look at anyone like that.” 

Maglor sighed. Had he really been that transparent? “They say there’s a first time for everything. Yes, I care for her. But we’re not courting.” 

“Why not?” Elrond asked.

Maglor blinked, a little bemused. “Do I really need to answer that?” 

Elrond shrugged. “You just told me about a year where very little turned to evil, you found someone – an entire culture, in fact! – that doesn’t shun Kinslayers, and the Oath seemingly did not trouble you at all. So yes, you do need to answer that.” 

Well. That neatly dealt with all three things that Maglor had planned on reminding him about. He was correct, though. They hadn’t seemed like great obstacles, over the past year.

“Hypothetically,” Maglor said, “yes, I could ask her. Practically speaking, though…” Elrond made an encouraging motion with his hand. Maglor shook his head. “I don’t think it’d end well.” 

Elrond shook his head. “You can’t know unless you ask, though. You’re the one who taught me about proving negatives. And she seems very fond of you,” he said. 

“She’s fond of a lot of people,” Maglor said, but he held up his hands out, palm up, in acceptance of the point. “Alright, I concede to your point: I can’t know unless I ask. But consider this, Elrond. This is the first new friend that I have made in centuries. She is kind and fearless and brilliant. Is it so unreasonable to wish to protect that friendship?” 

“Not unreasonable. But reason is not always enough, and you know that. You’re considering what you might lose, but not at all what you might gain. Can’t you hope for that? For something even brighter and stronger than your friendship with her?” 

Maglor looked at Elrond in the firelight. Elrond’s eyes were questioning, and they shone with starlight, and the strength of his own hope. Part of it was that Elrond had been raised in Beleriand at war, and he had never – at least to Maglor’s knowledge – been in love. Of course it was easier for him to contemplate this. But another part of it was estel, soft and glowing, even for Maglor, who had hurt him so many times. 

“It’s very good to see you still hope,” Maglor told him, and he meant it.

Elrond shook his head again. “You’re deflecting me. You say that she is kind, and fearless, and brilliant, and you love her for that. Alright, then. You know her better than I do. But if she is, then I think your friendship would survive. Even if she refused you.” 

Maglor drank from his wine again. “I hadn’t thought of that,” he said, eventually, after he turned Elrond’s words over in his mind a bit, thinking over them. Neniel had grown up in a small village. Presumably, she was not as quick to avoid someone after things went awry. 

She said she’d visit. Even after I nearly kissed her. The memory of her staring back at him in the moonlight, her face very close to his, wide-eyed as she licked her lips, was very clear. Of course, as often as that memory had shown up in his dreams since it happened, it ought to be clear.

Elrond laughed, catching his thought, and Maglor felt his cheeks heat in embarrassment. “You didn’t mention that! You see? There’s hope for you yet.” 

Maglor sighed, and looked into his cup, instead of Elrond’s face. His cup did not wear such an amused smile. “You’re not going to forget this in a hurry, are you?” 

“No. But luckily for you, I will stop pestering you about it, if you want me to.”

“I do,” Maglor said, immediately. “You’ve given me a lot to think about, and I will think about it. But I have given you nearly all of my news, and I have heard absolutely none of yours. What goes on in Mithlond? How is the city?”     

---

“Oh, come on. You’re making that up!” the Elf laughed, his eyes bright and merry. His name was Sîdhir, and he was very cheerful and easygoing, but also perhaps a little prone to insensitivity. He was also an excellent fisherman, and not at all alarmed by the prospect of her people moving in to share the fishing grounds with them. But apparently, he found the idea of Ossë creating otters for someone a little far-fetched. That, or she was missing some nuance of humour, perhaps. 

It had been a rather long day, filled with looking in on her people, and checking what they were up to. It had been interesting, and she had a lot of things she wanted to know more about. But before she could satisfy her curiosity, she had to attend to this.

Helado’s cousins wanted to go down the river and harvest the reed-mace for making mats, and new cloth, and soon, Eirien and Saelo and the fisher-folk would want to start fishing as well. She had spoken to Gil-galad and Elrond about it, two days ago before Elrond left to go south, but it seemed wise to talk to the man who oversaw the fishing grounds as well. 

Neniel shook her head, and smiled politely at him. “I’m not that imaginative,” she said. She carefully did not look at Ráca, sitting at her other side, because that might make Ráca laugh too hard, and feel tempted to bring up the Goldberry incident. Probably she would restrain herself, but there was no point in testing her. “I can prove it to you, if you’d like. Just give me a moment.” Neniel let out a series of chirps and reached out with her mind for the Lhûn. She felt the Lhûn’s laughter thrum against her mind, a slight shift in the notes of the water.

“I don’t see anything,” Sîdhir said, peering down into the water.

“Give it a minute,” Ráca said, as Neniel let out another chirruping call.

Beady dark eyes stared up at her, and Neniel smiled, scooping the otter up out of the water, asking for its aid in chirps and rumbling growls.  

With an even lower rumbling growl, the otter gave her an interesting suggestion with what she could do with that question, but then, they weren’t always friendly to strangers, even ones that sounded like the river.  Ráca snorted, and Neniel smiled wryly at her, before she looked back at the otter. It took half an hour, before she eventually got him to agree to help, and helped him onto the edge of the boat. 

He dived into the water, and resurfaced about five minutes later, with a very nice trout in its jaws. Neniel caught it, and laughed, handing it to Sîdhir, who stared. 

“That’s…new.” 

Neniel smiled. “That’s why we came here. To learn new things, and share new things with you as well. So you won’t mind if we fish with otters, as well as our nets?” 

“Are you going to breed the otters? That one didn’t seem like it’d be amenable.”

“Oh, no,” Neniel said. “They’re not like hounds. Hounds give an Elf their prey, and then the Elf gives them a portion of it. An otter keeps most of his catch, but he’ll give you some of it. Although it usually takes fifty star cycles – ah, idhrinn – before they actually become cheerful about doing that, but by then, they think of Elves as friends.” 

“Ah, I see.” Sîdhir nodded. “Alright. I can’t think of a reason that it shouldn’t work. Let’s try it tomorrow.” 

She smiled, and got to her feet, before stepping onto the water. She glanced at Ráca, and Ráca looked back at her, a little plaintive.

“We don’t have to do anything else urgently today, do we?” 

Neniel thought about it, running through names and locations in her head, until…

“No,” Neniel said, feeling surprised, even as she said it, coming to the end of the list. “Everybody seems to be settled for now. This question about the fishing grounds was the last urgent thing to settle.” 

Ráca heaved a great sigh. “Finally.” She got to her feet and pulled off her shirt and leggings, hurling them onto the river-bank, before she dived into the water. Sîdhir did not even blink. Maglor would certainly have shut his eyes. Why was that different?

Neniel waved to her cousin as she surfaced. “Have fun.” 

Ráca waved back, before she took a deep breath and dived down into the water, and Neniel turned to Sîdhir and thanked him, before she turned west, and started walking down the river to the West. The sun would set soon, and it would be beautiful on the sea.

She passed another boat of Noldor as she walked, and she waved to them. One of the trio of fishermen waved at her, but his two friends were staring in astonishment. They’d get used to it eventually, though. Maglor had. 

Maglor would not be able to come to Mithlond. Elrond had made that quite clear, and she couldn’t blame either him or Gil-galad for that. But at the same time…

She missed him, still.

She slipped into the shadow cast by the quay, quickly shucked her clothes, and then hurled them onto the bank, before she submerged in the river again and swam underneath it. She didn’t want to talk, not right now. It had been a very long few days, and she didn’t think she could keep her polite face on for any longer. She couldn’t worry about offending somebody, or making a good first impression. 

Although now that she thought about it, she’d never really fretted about offending Maglor. Hurting him, yes. Offending him, no. 

She kept swimming down the river, letting the current carry her through its course as it slowly widened, leaving the quays of Mithlond behind her. The rhythm of stroking and kicking, the simple feeling of exertion in her muscles, helped relax her. A school of grayling brushed alongside her body, and she laughed at the feel of scales against her skin, and swam faster, kicking stronger and stroking faster through the water. The graylings pulled ahead, but that was inevitable; they had so much less bulk to move through the water, and fins. There was a grove of willows on the left bank, and Neniel turned and stroked towards the bank. She hoisted herself up out of the water using the grey roots as handholds, and patted them apologetically. “Sorry about that. It’s been a long day.” 

The tree rustled, and Neniel understood that the rude greeting was forgiven, but should not be repeated. She stood and introduced herself properly, and the tree rustled once again that it had heard from the Lhûn about her nieces’ presence, and had wondered when it would see her. 

“Well, right now, as it happens,” Neniel said, and she laughed. “Do you mind if I sit down against you?” 

Another rustle, and she leaned forward into the water, and drew some of it up out of the river in her hands. No bowl, no basin, no cooking pot. Theoretically, she could use the river itself, but then, she was not the only one who could speak to a river. 

So…

She hummed at the ball of water in her hands, carefully twisting it like a potter twisted clay, and humming the notes. It took several tries to get the shape right, but eventually, she held a small lumpy, misshapen icy bowl in her hand.

Good. The first step was done. And now for the second. 

She leaned forward again, scooped up some more water out of the Lhûn into the bowl, pictured Maglor’s face in her mind, and began to sing again, softly, pitched neither very low or very high, the kind of song that she could keep up for hours, if she had to. 

In the end, though, she didn’t have to wait very long before the image of Maglor’s face was caught in the bowl in miniature, shining in the light of the sunset. He was looking to his side, where Elrond was speaking, and laughing at what Elrond said. Elrond had two squirrels cradled in one arm, and was gesturing animatedly with the other, and Maglor laughed again, before he looked into the water. His eyes went very wide when he saw her, and then they closed. Elrond’s glance turned concerned, before his gaze turned to follow Maglor’s. His eyes also went a little wide, before a mischievous look came into them. 

He dumped the squirrels in Maglor’s hands, and turned to walk off out of her view. “I’ll go build up the fire. You can clean the squirrels.”

Maglor sighed, and he looked down at the squirrels. He was very carefully not looking at her. Why was that? They’d parted as friends, even if it had been a little awkward, initially, after they hadn’t kissed. 

…Oh, of course. She wasn’t clothed. 

She carefully adjusted the angle of the bowl, holding it up so that nothing below her collarbones showed – not even Maglor could be shocked by collarbones, surely – but also so that the water did not spill out of the bowl. 

“You can look at the water again now,” she told him, unable to keep the laugh out of her voice. His answering chuckle was rueful, a little embarrassed, but he opened his eyes. Familiar and grey and Treelit, bright with happiness. At his son’s visit? At seeing her? 

The second thought made a dangerous warmth curl through her, and she brushed it aside to start with her first questions.

“Honestly, what is it with the Noldor and nudity? The Falathrim don’t seem to have a problem with it.” 

She’d missed this, too, the way his brows knitted together as he thought about a new question, the way he drummed his fingernails on his body as though to order his thoughts. She’d missed him. 

Her decision was already made, she realised, looking at him. She might be frightened. But she was not so frightened that she would give up her friend. 

When he spoke again, it was almost a shock. “The Falathrim are constantly in and out of water, and so are your people. I am assuming that has something to do with it. And – did I ever tell you this? The Noldor delight even more in gems that we have made, than ones that we have found in the earth. Our joy is in making, to the point where we are not as delighted in things as they are. I think that shapes our attitude, some, perhaps even towards clothing.” He shrugged. “But you know how hard it is to shift an attitude, once it’s established.” 

True enough. “Alright, that makes sense,” she said, leaning back against the willow tree’s great trunk. “Some. I have more questions, though.” 

Maglor smiled, and leaned forward a little. “And lots of news of what you’ve been up to, I suppose. I’m glad. Tell me everything.” 

They spoke until the sun had set, in purple and pink and orange light spreading out against the sky, the waters turning almost purple. Around that point, a smiling Elrond reappeared, asking for the squirrels. They were still lying in Maglor’s lap, completely untouched, and given the way Elrond’s grin widened, he had expected as much.

Maglor looked at her, a hint of apology in his eyes, and she spoke before he could express it. Spending time with his son was the last thing he needed to apologise for. “I had better go back to Mithlond, and find Regen and Ráca.” 

Maglor smiled. “Tell them I said hello.” 

“I will,” Neniel said. “Take care of yourself.” She flicked her fingers through the water, and the image broke, until it was simply clear river-water over an white, lumpy ice bowl. Neniel smiled slowly, and tipped the water out of the bowl onto the willow tree’s roots, before she started walking back up to Mithlond, the sun setting in glory behind her, and the echo of Maglor’s rueful laughter ringing in her ears. 

 

---

Chapter End Notes

*pulls out a confetti gun, and shoots up towards the ceiling*

Folks, herein endeth the “Weirdest Year In the Life Ever: by Maglor Fëanorion.” With our heroes hopeful, and changed, and wondering what on earth comes next. 

1. Celenem’s reaction to Elrond’s horse – who I don’t even have a name for, shame on me – is loosely based off the reaction that my collie dog had when she met a horse a few years ago. She reacted by trying to herd it. Seeing as Celenem’s never met a horse before, I thought reacting that “…PREY???” was a reasonable way for a hunting dog to react. 

2. ‘Ulmo’s ears’ is invented by bunn, and is one of Elrond’s very clear memories of Eärendil. Eärendil was quite frustrated, with how long his prayers took to reach the Valar. Hence: Ulmo’s ears. XD 

3. Estel: hope and faith that persists, in spite of lack of evidence to support it. 

4. Sîdhir: Lord of Peace. I think this is one of Gil-galad’s cousins from the Falas, and his mother had a vision of foresight of her son actually surviving the war, and living to see the peace afterwards. 

5. Idhrinn: Sindarin, year. 

6. I was not expecting Elrond to be this supportive of the Maglor/Neniel thing. But on the whole, I rather like that he is. 

7. Why Neniel kept walking on water when she and Regen used the ropes at home puzzled me. I think in the end it boiled down to two reasons that they did that. One was to show Maglor how it was done. The other one was because both of them are show-offs. It’s a half-Ainu thing, really. XD 

8. Finally, if any of you were wondering what specific Kindi OC characters were up to, and have been keeping track as carefully as I have, I made a list. It was too clunky for the chapter, but here it is, for those of you who really, really adore them. On this particular day: 

– Gilado and Laino, Helado's cousins, textile workers like him, have found the weavers' collective, which has people from Harlond, Forlond and Mithlond. They are up to their eyeballs in discussions on how treating sea silk differs from spider silk.

– Mistinda, a potter of the second generation of Cuiviénen, has become fascinated by Noldorin glassblowing. She's currently negotiating an apprenticeship, and is using every ounce of "oh, yes, I remember the starlight at Cuiviénen" legend in said negotiations. 

– Eirien and Saelo, the fisher-Elves who befriend Maglor, and about thirty others are all missing the trees, so Panonis, one of bunn's Noldor whom Eirien has met, has offered to show them around her orchards. 

– Several members of Eilian's clan went to Mithlond. Eilian is a smith, and so are most of the people in his family. They are finding Noldorin smiths to badger and show them how the new layout affects the heat distribution of the forge, and the temperature of the metal. Celebrimbor is quite grateful that he has no major projects going on at the moment, since otherwise, he would definitely not have the patience for this. 

– Regen has found the kennels, and has had to be dragged out for mealtimes. 

To anyone who have come with me on this ridiculous, wonderful journey: thank you so much. I hope you enjoyed it.