For the First Time in Forever by quillingmesoftly

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Noldolantë

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

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

“I thought you said you knew it.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smiled. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you,” he said. 

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

“I know,” he said. “I understand.”

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

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Chapter End Notes

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

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

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

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

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