For the First Time in Forever by quillingmesoftly

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Singing in the Sunlight

Neniel makes a decision, and Maglor goes into denial. 

---

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!