For the First Time in Forever by quillingmesoftly

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Meetings

In which Maglor survives a long-overdue conversation and Neniel tallies supplies.

 

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“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.