For the First Time in Forever by quillingmesoftly

---

The Love of Field and Coppice

In which Maglor panics and Neniel teaches about forestry.

---

 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.