For the First Time in Forever by quillingmesoftly

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Mirror and Meeting

In which Maglor is introduced to Goldberry's parents.

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

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

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

“Need to go back,” he corrected. 

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

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

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

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

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

Are you still planning on leaving again? he asked. 

Yes.

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

I am not apologising for leaving, she said. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He won’t, you’re Finwë’s grandson.

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

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

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

Which part? 

All of it. Alqualondë. Doriath. The guards. 

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

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

She frowned. What Oath?

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

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

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

Brood of Morgoth or bright Vala,

Elda, Maia or Aftercomer, 

Man yet unborn upon Middle-Earth,

neither law, nor love, nor league of swords, 

dread nor danger nor Doom itself, 

shall defend him from Fëanáro and Fëanáro’s kin…

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

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

He nodded. Yes.

Does it still bind you? The Oath? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lim,” he supplied. “Or hâl, maybe.” 

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

“What are you thinking?” he asked her.

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

She nodded. 

I have an idea, she said. 

He said it in Sindarin. 

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

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

She inclined her head. 

My child.

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

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

Emmá! I’m sorry about running away. 

Her mother nodded. Apology accepted. Who is this?

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

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

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

The woman scoffed. He is dangerous, daughter. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ataro! 

Neniellë!

The thoughts rang out simultaneously. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where will you go? 

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

A wise step. Maglor Fëanorion? 

Maglor met Nurwë’s gaze evenly. My lord? 

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

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

You knew my Haru at Cuiviénen? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maglor rose to his feet, and stood beside her. 

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

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

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

 

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Chapter End Notes

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

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

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