Written in the Starlight by Rhapsody

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A Sort of Homecoming

Special thanks to our wonderful beta Lydia!

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“Tis unheard of,” Mablung announced quietly, seeing no one follow him. “I have received a clear order from the king. You are allowed to enter the Hidden Kingdom. You will go to Menegroth. However, you will be traveling unarmed and guarded. Your arms will be stored here until you leave our lands.”

With that, Mablung turned on his heels, left the posts, and headed to his quarters, still shaking his head and shuddering at the thought of letting the Fëanorians enter the realm he was supposed to be defending from every possible danger. It seemed as if he were inviting a pack of wolves into a cattle-pen. Spotting the king’s messenger waiting for his response, he called the errand-warden to bring a fresh horse and turned to the messenger.

“Go back to the king and tell him that the sons of Fëanor are here. They will be escorted to Menegroth. Tell him also that Beleg Cúthalion and Túrin son of Húrin have returned. Hurry, my friend, and may the Valar lead your steps.”

The messenger bowed and mounted the horse the warden had brought in the meantime. He stuck his heels into its sides and the steed darted forward at the speed of lightning.

Mablung waited for the company to gather on the edge of the road that led into the woods near his quarters. Cautiously observing every move of the unexpected guests, he nodded for the wardens to surround the group. Celegorm moved his horse closer to Maedhros’ and snarled, “Allies...?” Beleg heard him and felt anger boiling in his veins. He was about to shoot back a retort at Celegorm but saw Caranthir lean to the right as his horse trotted past Amrod’s and sneeringly address Túrin, “Neithan, you said, hmmm?”

In that moment, Beleg stopped believing this folly would ever bring about anything good. Hanging his head in utter shame, he silently followed the group as the horsemen reached the yard in front of Mablung’s quarters. The joy of returning home had vanished, leaving his thoughts darkened and his heart soured. Behind his back, the wardens piled up the Fëanorians’ weapons, which they had picked up from the path on the border.

“Valar, what have I done?” Beleg muttered, meeting Gwindor’s compassionate eyes.

“Fear not, my friend,” Gwindor comforted him quietly when he had dismounted and walked over to Beleg. Placing a hand on the warden’s shoulder, Gwindor continued, “Have faith, for we have survived many perils thanks to your guidance and wisdom.”

“For what purpose?” Beleg asked bitterly.

“To return home,” Gwindor replied, looking around curiously while the wardens took their positions and glared at the visitors.

“And to bring vipers along, Gwindor,” Beleg whispered, lowering his gaze and sighing.

“Too late for remorse, Beleg.” Gwindor shook his head and the grip of his fingers on Beleg’s shoulder grew stronger. “Do not let bitterness consume you.”

When the preparations were almost finished and five more horses snorted impatiently in the yard, Mablung neared Beleg, who still stood aside. Gwindor, Túrin, and Maeglin mounted the steeds they had been given, but Beleg didn’t move. Mablung stopped in front of him and handed him his bow, quiver, dagger, and the black sword.

“You are not an enemy, Cúthalion,” Mablung said with a smile, unaware of Curufin’s angry look. “Welcome home.”

“Thank you, my friend,” Beleg answered with a sigh, shooting a glare, a silent response, at Curufin past Mablung’s shoulder.

“Let us depart.” Mablung bowed and stepped backward. Having mounted, he glanced at Beleg, who decided to move at last and jumped onto the horse’s back. Mablung raised his hand and commanded, “Fooorwaaaaaaaaaaaard!”

~*~

The rustle of leaves awoke the elleth sitting high in the branches from her cautious reverie. Bringing her senses to alertness, she looked down at the clearing and the path that meandered near the line of trees. Since the day she had seen the messenger hurry from Menegroth to the wardens’ posts on the marches, she had sat on this branch, which offered a full view of the surroundings and, at the same time, provided shelter. An unsettling feeling had told her to stay alert as long as she could, but finally the need to rest, for a while at least, had overcome her. From her seat, she could see the clearing, and now she saw the king’s messenger riding back to Menegroth. The horse forced its way quickly onward, and the elleth leaned forward to take a closer look. Her actions startled a bird, which bounced up from the shrubbery screeching loudly and fluttering its wings.

The messenger’s horse reared on its hind legs, suddenly coming to a complete stop; then, in slow motion, ridiculously slow in comparison to its previous speed, the animal fell onto the grass, banging its left side against the path with a thudding noise. The elf managed to move his left leg up in an effort to avoid being crushed, but the impact of the crash threw him from the horse’s back. His body collided with the ground, and a painful cry ripped the air.

The elleth covered her mouth with her hand as if to stifle a shriek. Immediately, she climbed down the tree trunk and ran over to the horse, which was trying to get up and squealing from pain and fear. The elf was lying motionless, but the steed jumped up vehemently and rushed in a furious gallop back to where it had come from. Only the ever more distant clashing of hooves offered proof that there had been a horse here but a moment ago.

Quickly inspecting the lifeless form, the elleth soon discovered the cause of his unconsciousness. The elf had hit his head against a lone, large stone that stood out from the yellowed grass near the path.

“Poor thing,” she muttered while retrieving her water skin, working its string over her head. Then, she rolled up the sleeves of her tunic, took out a small dagger from its sheath, which was attached to her belt, and brushed her hair from her face and tied it in a thick knot at her nape. With the dagger, she cut a large piece of fabric from her skirt and then divided it into a couple of smaller strips. After wetting the cloth with water from her water skin, she pressed the provisional dressing to the wound on the elf’s head, carefully wiping the blood away. The messenger stirred and moaned from pain.

“Shhh, do not move,” the elleth whispered, tending to the wound and wrapping the strands of her skirt around the elf’s head.

“What happened?” he asked in a cracked voice. “Who are you?”

“You fell from your horse, Sir,” the elleth explained. “You hit your head and you’re wounded.”

“Yes...” he hissed as pain flashed through his head.

“And my name is Nellas,” she supplied quickly.

With a smile, she wiped her hands against her tunic and examined the messenger’s arms and legs in order to find out if there were any broken bones.

“There. My work is done.”

“Thank you, my Lady,” he whispered as his eyelids fell shut.

“Nellas, please.” She laughed softly, relieved that the elf wasn’t grievously injured.

“Daugion.” He moaned again.

“Very well, Daugion, though not entirely ‘well met’,” Nellas answered, tilting her head to the right and studying his face. “Your horse ran off. I am sorry.”

“Ai!” Daugion winced. “My mission!”

“You were heading to Menegroth, were you not?” Nellas asked, pulling back to stand up. She put her skirt in order, sheathed her dagger, and reached for the water skin. Glancing around, she looked for a more suitable place than the middle of the road to wait for their rescue.

Daugion didn’t know whether he should answer.

“I know you were,” Nellas prompted. “Can you please try to get up?”

“What are you doing here, Nellas?” Daugion inquired cautiously, observing her face as she bent forward to help him.

“I live in these woods,” she stated simply.

Daugion smiled while reaching out for Nellas. She put her arms around his waist and pulled him as he wrapped his about her shoulders. Her strength amazed him; in the next moment, he was standing precariously, supported by her arms as she held him tightly to her body.

“Well done, Daugion!” Nellas let out a soft laugh. “You will live.”

“Are you a healer?” he asked in wonder.

“No, but I needed to learn how to survive in the forest,” she replied.

“Why do you not live in Menegroth?”

“You are asking too many questions, Daugion,” Nellas admonished him in a soft voice.

“Yes. Forgive me.” Daugion gave her a short bow, almost dashing his forehead against hers.

“Be careful!” She laughed again. “Though, come to think of it, you may need another injury on the front side of your head, just for balance.”

Daugion would have blushed if his skin weren’t unhealthily pale.

“Oh, I am sorry.” Nellas hurried to explain. “I did not mean to embarrass you. Will you try to walk? I imagine we should get out of the road. Not that I am afraid of the fact that we make an interesting prospect right now by standing here and clutching one another.” She winked at Daugion, who attempted to chuckle but failed completely. “After all, we barely know each other, do we?”

“No.” Daugion winced and then smiled. His head throbbed mercilessly, and he suddenly felt a strong urge to sit down, no matter where, while the whole world began to dance around him.

“Very well, let us try,” Nellas said, changing her position. She moved to Daugion’s left side, wrapping her arm around his waist and drawing his arm along her shoulders. Her hand took a firm hold of his forearm.

“I need to go to Menegroth,” Daugion told her while they waddled from the path to the wayside cluster of trees. Nellas watched their steps, at the same time searching for a good place to rest.

“Of course you do,” she quipped. “But beware; it would take you two hundred days, maybe more, to get there at this velocity. Suppose I had a better idea.”

“Namely, what?”

“We are closer to the border than to Menegroth.”

“Yes.”

“You need to rest.”

“Yes.”

“I can see two solutions. Firstly, I could leave you here and seek for help, and be sure I would go straight to the wardens’ posts,” Nellas continued while they walked over to a tree with large, twisted and mossy roots. “Secondly, I would stay here with you and wait for the Valar to send us someone to take you to Menegroth. Now, what say you?”

Daugion’s forehead clouded over for a brief moment. He knew that the division of wardens was now escorting the sons of Fëanor to Menegroth. There was no need for Nellas to go to the posts because rescue was on its way, or at least Daugion thought so. He wasn’t sure how long they would be waiting for Mablung and his wardens to reach the clearing. If something unexpected happened, they might be sitting here for days.

“Will you stay with me?” he asked hesitantly.

“I will,” Nellas answered.

~*~

Beleg let his horse trot to catch up with Mablung’s, who led the party. After a while, when the horses stepped side by side and the two wardens rode wordlessly, Beleg turned to Mablung. He opened his mouth several times, trying to start a conversation, but his words kept failing him.

“Say, Beleg, what evil power possessed you?” Mablung asked finally.

Beleg frowned.

“Did you imagine what might have been if we had not received the order?”

Beleg said nothing; only his shoulders stiffened.

“Tis madness,” Mablung sighed.

“Aye,” Beleg confirmed.

“I would not have ever thought that you, especially you,” shaking his head, Mablung continued, “would lead the sons of Fëanor here. Never in my weirdest, most incredible dreams. Or should I say nightmares? Beleg, what happened to you?”

“I do not know,” Beleg answered.

“How so?” Mablung seethed.

“Mablung, I will not explain my reasons to you now,” Beleg stated, dropping his eyes as if to count every single strand of hair on the horse’s neck. “I was sure when we neared the borders that we would have to draw swords against one another...”

At that moment, Beleg’s words were interrupted by the sound of hooves rapidly approaching from the depths of the forest. The two leaders halted their steeds; Mablung raised his hand for the company to stop marching. Beleg’s fingers rested on the hilt of his sword.

An unbridled horse appeared on the path in front of the troops, its mane and tail flowing through the air like banners. Noticing the group and chivying aside, the animal tried to escape into the shrubbery.

“Catch the horse!” Mablung shouted.

The wardens rushed to surround the fleeing steed, which Mablung recognized as the one he had given to the king’s emissary.

The moment the elves had disappeared, Caranthir barked out, “Amras! Give me the rope!”

Amras worked the roll over his head and then tossed it to his older brother. Caranthir prodded his horse to move forward, tying a loop at the same time. His mount set out in pursuit, while Caranthir twisted the rope above his head.

“Out of my way!” Caranthir roared.

“Move, people!” Mablung ordered.

Caranthir’s horse closed the distance to the runaway. With a powerful strike of his arm, Caranthir sent the loop to land around the horse’s neck. The rope flew through the air, and in the next moment the fearful squealing of a frightened animal could be heard. In a furious attempt to free itself from the rope, the horse flung itself about, its eyes bloodied and full of horror. Caranthir held the rope and jumped onto the grass to wrestle with the captured beast.

“Easy now, fiery one!”

Caranthir braced his feet against the ground and used all his strength to keep the horse from running away, still speaking in a low voice. The animal reared, its hooves dancing wildly, while Caranthir tried to shorten the rope.

“No need to be afraid. Ease down!”

The horse tossed its head, circling Caranthir in a vehement trot and eyeing him hatefully, but his quiet, musical voice finally set it at ease. The animal stopped, pawing in the dust and snorting angrily.

“Good horse, very good horse,” Caranthir said, slowly walking closer.

At last, he patted the sweat-damped and foamed neck of the steed, which remained motionless, as if glad to have received the caress.

“There you go.” Caranthir chuckled.

A quiet neigh was the sole answer.

“Where did you lose your master?” Caranthir asked.

The horse swished its long tail, stepping beside the elf like a polite puppy.

“Yes, I know,” Caranthir said. “It was a foolish question.”

Handing the rope to Mablung, Caranthir gave him a triumphant smirk and whistled to call his own steed.

“Aline!” Mablung ordered, resuming the march.

Beleg nudged his horse to move beside Mablung’s, silently thankful for the quick action. While the company followed them, he heard the rest of the Fëanorians congratulate Caranthir. Biting his lip pensively, Beleg didn’t utter a word, even though Mablung kept glancing at him questioningly. After a moment of waiting patiently, Mablung called for one of the wardens and commanded him to find out what had happened to the messenger.

For a long time, they traveled along the river, going deeper and deeper into the woods, and Beleg’s heart lightened with each passing step. After all, he was back home, and the breathing of the ancient forest brought him joy and brightened his thoughts. The river snaked between the trees, leading them without hesitation, and Beleg began to think that maybe this difficult situation would turn out well. They would have to face the king, who, Beleg was sure, wouldn’t welcome them with open arms, but something must have happened to make Thingol change his mind and let them cross the border. Beleg saw the queen’s influence in this sudden turnabout. He had to admit he was surprised beyond belief. Thus pondering his current position, he looked at Mablung and smiled faintly.

“At least Túrin is alive and safe with us.”

“Aye, my friend,” Mablung said with a nod. “One day, very soon I can assure you, you will tell me about your trip.”

“With pleasure,” Beleg replied, scanning the line of trees as the company arrived at the edge of the clearing.

“Look!” Mablung rose on the horse’s back, spotting two figures on the ground.

“We’ve found what we were looking for...?” Beleg mused aloud, narrowing his eyes.

One of the figures stood up and waved at the company. The other remained sitting, and much to his surprise, Beleg recognized the king’s messenger with his head wrapped in some kind of dressing.

“What a misfortunate event!” Mablung stated by way of greeting. “Well met, Nellas.” He bowed and smiled at the elleth, who eyed the group suspiciously, trying to hide her surprise.

“Well met, Mablung of the Heavy Hand,” she muttered, curtsying.

Standing up with effort, Daugion broke in, “If it were not for Nellas’ help, I would have been lying here bathed in my own blood, so I am assuming that the day hasn’t been entirely misfortunate.”

“Ah.” Nellas blushed. “No trouble at all.” Then she saw Túrin and felt warmth running down her spine. Having glanced at the rest of the company, she dropped her eyes upon meeting Beleg’s gaze. He looked away, smiling lightly.

“You will be safe now,” Nellas told Daugion.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“I can go back home,” she said simply, showing everyone that she had no intention of accompanying them.

In the meantime, Mablung had ordered that a spare horse be given to Daugion. Hearing Nellas’ reply, he waved his hand dismissively, objecting, “Nonsense, my Lady. You will go with us and tell His Majesty what happened.”

“Not again!” Nellas hissed, quietly shaking her head.

Her denial agitated the companions. Gwindor cast a look at Maeglin, who shrugged. Túrin dismounted. Celegorm urged his horse forward, nodding to Amrod to follow him.

“And why, pray tell, do you not wish to go with us, my beautiful?” Celegorm smiled charmingly, his eyes sparkling. Amrod reined his horse in a slow circle around Nellas. She looked at them, frowning. Mablung indicated the two Fëanorians with his head, and a few wardens moved closer to them, ready to prevent more problems.

“I would say tis nothing you should be concerned about, Sir,” Nellas answered.

Túrin cast a look at the rest of the wardens. They stood motionlessly, as if they saw and heard nothing. He shook his head and forced his way forward, leaving his horse where it had stopped. Passing by Celegorm’s steed, he slapped its hind quarters. The horse skipped aside with a start. Celegorm uttered a muffled curse.

Nellas suppressed laughter.

Túrin stood in front of her, bowing slightly. “Do you remember me?” he asked.

“Yes, I do, son of Húrin.” She giggled.

“Come with us, please,” Túrin implored, lowering his voice. Bending forward, he brought a finger to his temple and rotated his hand several times. “These men are mad,” he muttered, winking at Nellas. “Please, do not argue with them.”

“Mad?” she whispered confidentially, glancing past Túrin’s shoulder at Celegorm and then at Amrod. “Very well. I cannot fight with madness. I shall yield to your reasonable advice.”

“Come,” Túrin laughed extending his hand. “You will ride with me.”

Túrin led Nellas to where his horse waited and helped her mount. As they sat together, Nellas narrowed her eyes, looking at Beleg’s broad back, but the warden didn’t turn his head.

~*~

The halls of Menegroth seemed utterly deserted. Where normally the courtiers would be bursting with activity and chatter, most now quickly hurried along the hallways to tend to their chores. It is as if everyone knows who has entered the realm, Melian mused, knowing she still had time to convince Thingol of her intent. The hallway to the treasury chamber was long. It didn’t surprise her at all that Thingol would choose to be all alone. Melian took in the room and immediately recognized the presence of the jewel, which disturbed her greatly. She paused to recollect herself and wondered why this famed jewel should affect her and, even more deeply, her spouse.

“It would not tell you anything good, my Lord, even if you could cast a silent spell on it,” Melian said from the doorway. Upon entering the treasury cave, she had spotted Thingol sitting in the darkest corner and watching the Silmaril, which was lying on a velvety pillow in a small chest. When she had spoken the quiet words, Thingol closed the lid with a startled, vehement movement.

“What do you wish of me, my Lady?” Thingol asked, annoyed that his wife had caught him off guard.

“They are here, Thingol. They crossed the bridge over Esgalduin and are now heading to the main gates. It would be proper to greet them,” Melian replied, folding her arms across her chest and looking at Thingol anticipatively.

“Then go and greet them, my Queen,” Thingol said sharply, shrugging. “I will not humiliate myself by even looking at the sons of Fëanor. Send Mablung to my study when they arrive.”

“I am not your errand-boy,” she uttered firmly.

“Melian, please.”

“Very well.”

“Thank you.”

Melian exited the treasury, shaking her head lightly at the whole conversation. She hadn’t expected the king to agree to welcome the guests, but she was unsettled by the fact that she had found him in the treasury and especially by the manner in which he had guarded the Silmaril, as if Thingol assumed no one else would guarantee its safety. Such was the power of the jewel, and Melian feared it was slowly but surely consuming Thingol’s spirit and that it would succeed in overpowering him soon.

She hurried to the throne hall, ordering one of the sentinels to call for the captain of the palace guards. When he arrived, they quickly discussed the matter of welcoming the party. At last, Melian could sit and wait. Entwining her fingers on her lap, she fixed her eyes on the door.

The sounds of steps, clanging armor, and voices could soon be heard, and after a moment Mablung of the Heavy Hand appeared in the entrance. The queen greeted him with a warm smile. Behind his back, she noticed Nellas and Túrin son of Húrin, and her eyes sparkled with happiness. More of the travelers crowded into the throne hall, and to her enormous surprise, Melian saw Beleg, accompanied by two dark-haired elves. Nellas tried to stay as close to the door as possible, having curtsied, and tangled her fingers in front of her nervously. Finally, the seven Fëanorians entered the hall.

“Mablung,” Melian started when the captain walked over and knelt on one knee before her, “His Majesty wishes to see you.”

“Yes, my Lady,” Mablung answered, getting up and moving away.

“Son of Húrin,” Melian continued, gesturing for the young man to come closer, “my heart is lit with joy.”

Túrin dropped his eyes and knelt as well, saying nothing.

Melian put her hand on his head. “I believe my husband will be delighted to finally see you.” Then, her eyes stopped on the figures of Gwindor and Maeglin. “Welcome, my Lords, to Menegroth. Please, rest and enjoy your stay. The guards will show you your quarters.” She stood up and held out her hand. “Cúthalion,” she said softly. “Welcome home.”

Beleg felt something peculiar catching his throat when he stepped closer to the throne, then knelt, and took the queen’s hand to place a kiss on its back.

Melian smiled at him. “I am happy to see you.”

“My Lady.” Beleg’s voice betrayed his agitation.

“Beleg.” She motioned for him to get up and then looked at the rest of the company. “We will talk later. I imagine the king will be eager to know you have returned.”

The crowd in the hall grew smaller as the guards began to escort the guests to different parts of the palace. Nellas sneaked out of the throne hall thinking that her departure had gone unacknowledged by the queen. Melian only smiled briefly and then turned to the seven brothers, inclining her head lightly.

Proudly, Maedhros stood in front of his brothers. The king obviously hadn’t considered it proper to welcome the guests, just as Maedhros had expected. Carefully choosing his words, so that Maglor wouldn’t admonish him for rudeness later, Maedhros simply smiled at Melian.

“My Lady, Beleg Cúthalion promised us he would bring us here. Did the king choose you to be his emissary…?”

“…or is this kingdom truly ruled by a man who has no…”

“Turko!” Maglor and Maedhros silenced their younger brother with a deadly glare, and extended it to Curufin, whose eyes bore a sparkle of menace. Caranthir sighed at the twins, who tried to suppress their laughter. All knew too well what Celegorm had wanted to say.

“I can see that the House of Fëanor is still represented by many voices, which scatter the power in many directions. But let us refresh first.” Melian offered calmly. “We will provide you rooms and see to your basic needs.”

“This is more generosity than we could expect, my Lady.” Maedhros nodded and walked in the direction the guards indicated; his brothers followed suit. What he didn’t notice was that Maglor was singled out in an instant and escorted to another corridor.

“Maedhros,” Celegorm started.

“Not now, Celegorm.”

“Maedhros!” the Ambarussa repeated and attempted to turn around, but they were stopped by the two tall Sindar.

“Celegorm!” Maedhros sighed impatiently. “Why do you have to stir things up again?”

“Have you not noticed then?” Caranthir spoke for his brothers. “Maglor is not with us!”

“This has been a set up!” Curufin suddenly hissed. “He has been playing us all along. That night when I found him on the riverbank staring at Doriath forlornly. ‘Not all is lost,’ he said to me!”

“Are you telling us that he has handed us over to Thingol? But for what?” Celegorm bristled but found Maedhros’ palm on his chest, as if his oldest brother could quiet all thoughts with one single move.

“He will not betray us, Turko. Maglor has kept us together all this time, even when he should not have. Whatever this Grey Cloak is planning, he will not lure Maglor into his thrall, no matter what magic his spouse conjures.” Maedhros remained deadly calm and soon an awkward silence settled over the brothers. “I trust him with my life,” he firmly added.

Unwilling to direct any more thoughts toward such an outcome, Maedhros nodded to the guards and the small group walked down the corridor. He smiled on hearing Celegorm mutter his protests. I hope I am right to trust you on this, Kano, Maedhros mused while one of the guards indicated his room. The door was closed with a firm thud behind him. I have never questioned you so far, my brother. You had better not betray us.

~*~

The room assigned to Maglor was a spacious one. With a sigh, he dropped his scarce belongings on the desk that stood next to the door. Why have I been separated from my brothers? Knowing how it might be interpreted, he hoped that Maedhros would be able to assure their brothers that even Maglor himself hadn’t had control over this event. Two guards stood outside, making sure he couldn’t escape. Taking in the room, he sauntered over to the bed, which was placed near the opposite wall, and sat down, fighting the sleepiness that threatened to overwhelm him. In the left corner, he saw an object covered with a green, velvet cloth, and to the right he noted a door, which might lead to the bathroom. There was no maidservant, and Maglor understood why. Thingol would have faced a rebellion if he had forced his people to wait upon the seven brothers. The guards escorting him hadn’t uttered a single word on their way to the room, and their glares, filled with hatred, hadn’t gone unnoticed.

As if I had stepped into a warg’s den, Maglor thought and started to untangle his braids; one by one, the long tresses fell down on his shoulders. Once he had removed his boots, Maglor rose from the bed and walked to the bathroom. This part of the chambers was scarcely furnished, only the basic utensils for bathing and changing clothes, but it was good enough. On the wooden shelves, he spotted some small vials of ink, accompanied by leather bags. Maglor restrained his curiosity and moved toward the bathtub, filled with scented, hot water; towels and clean clothes had been placed on the chair next to it.

Carefully, he tested the temperature of water and was surprised that it wasn’t scalding, even though he had witnessed the revulsion of the Sindar. A contented sigh escaped his lips, and he began to undress. Once he had tossed his tunic onto the floor, a melodic voice distracted him.

“I deem everything is in order, Maglor?”

Turning around, Maglor faced Melian.

“My Lady.” Maglor’s face didn’t betray surprise. He inclined his head lightly. “Your visit honours me. May I ask why you have come here?”

Melian studied the tall and handsome elf. His long, raven hair tumbled like silk down onto his back and shoulders, which were broad with small scars. His fine-toned abdomen flowed gracefully into strong hips and thighs. For a moment, Melian could see Finwë in him, but she knew that his younger brother Curufin was the exact copy.

Melian was aware that Maglor had taken a central role in this obscure attempt at a truce, and deep in her heart she realized they would never get this close again. Would words be enough to reach him, or would it take more drastic measures?

“I have come to seek the true meaning of your intent,” Melian answered, perceiving that no words could mislead this Fëanorian. “For so many years we have ached for a minstrel to sing for us,” she continued. “Our losses were cruel.”

“I am not a minstrel, Milady, but a bard.”

For a long time, Maglor had wondered why Celegorm had succumbed to Lúthien, but now, as he stood face to face with her mother, he suddenly understood the power of enchantment.

“I desire to understand your needs.”

“My Lady, trust me, you do not want to understand my needs.”

“But how can I give righteous counsel to my spouse? I beseech you, Maglor. It is the understanding of their nature that I seek.”

“Then, my Lady, tell me how you will seek it.” Maglor’s hand cupped Melian’s chin and pulled her face to his. “I will not be easily fooled by idle words.”

Melian smiled and kissed him softly on the lips. She gasped when Maglor’s tongue sought for entrance to her mouth. Their lips parted in a seductive invitation. She stroked Maglor’s cheek and felt him shiver when she placed her other hand on his neck.

They parted and gazed into each other’s eyes. Maglor knew this was the right way. Her ancient eyes seemed to see more than any other person’s could. Slowly, he ran his fingers through her hair and nodded. He searched for the most cherished memory in his mind, the one she would need to see to understand why he and his brothers had been driven this far.

“How far will we dare to go, Melian?” Maglor’s eyes flicked down her body. Melian caught her breath.

Such arrogance, and yet so enticing, she thought.

“I warned you, you would never understand my needs.”

“Some things need to be done for a greater purpose,” Melian answered, placing her hands on his smooth chest and sliding them down to glide her fingers over his nipples. Stopping on the ties of his leggings, she asked, “Will you?”

Catching her palms, Maglor smiled and rested them on his shoulders. “There will be a price.”

Melian nodded. Their mouths fused again. She mingled her mind with his and opened her eyes in amazement. The memory he granted her brought her back to Valinor. She followed him along green hills to a house where a broad-shouldered elf tossed a red-haired elfling in the air while an identical child clung to his leg. Maglor showed her the younger versions of himself and his brothers, full of joy and energy. The light of Telperion shone brightly, and all Melian felt was the sheer happiness and peace of their hearts. Soon she followed Fëanor into a darkened room. Serenity overcame her, a peace she had never felt before completed by love, excitement, and utter devotion. Three jewels were revealed, and Melian thought she had never seen such pure beauty, so different from the one she had beheld in Thingol’s chest. Slowly, she withdrew from Maglor’s thoughts and broke off their frenzied kiss and the meeting of their fëar.

“The only question is,” Melian whispered, her breath brushing his cheek while their foreheads rested against one another, “what you seek no longer contains the purity it once had.”

“Our cause is dire. If it is tainted, then we must seek for the means to heal it.” Maglor kissed her hands in reverence and let go of her. With a sigh, he wetted a cloth and washed his face.

“Do you not ache for peace of mind?” Melian asked, feeling nothing but pity for his fate. “Could your brothers agree to have one of them live near the Silmaril, as if he were appointed as its guard? We might be able to rinse away the malice and corruption from this one, since my own peace is at stake here.”

“I will follow Maedhros wherever he goes. As long as he does not find peace, neither shall I,” Maglor answered and grabbed a ladle. “But, Milady, as you can see, the need to find allies is important to us. We need the Kingdom of Doriath at our side. I imagine we can agree on guardianship of the jewels, that is, if we defeat Morgoth and regain what is ours…”

And we will be healed, Melian thought.

“The Valar will never leave the jewels alone, Maglor. You know this.”

“You must promise us never to yield it to the Valar, Melian,” Maglor said heatedly.

Taken aback by his sudden anger, Melian was surprised by this token of trust in her. “If I agree and if I can persuade my lord to…”

“My Lady, I do believe that your magic will shield the jewel from evil. But the ownership is ours. It is our legacy. Together, we can create a greater one – of victory and forgiveness.” Lazily, he poured the water over his head using the ladle. With a smile, he unlaced and peeled his leggings off.

“Maglor, you dream too much. Such things cannot be. Your heart may be almost pure, but some of your brothers will have to go a long way before they ever redeem themselves.” Melian handed him a towel and watched him dry himself before he put on the fresh set of clothes.

“My Lady, it is difficult to say what is impossible, for the dreams of yesterday are the hopes of today and the realities of tomorrow,” Maglor replied.

“A true son of Fëanor.” Melian gave him the dark-blue robe.

“Grandson of Finwë. Remind your spouse, my Lady, of the sacrifice of Finwë’s kin; remind him who slew my grandsire; remind him who started all this.” The robe fitted Maglor like a second skin as it flowed gracefully over his body. He left the bathroom and fastened his belt.

“For a long time have I thought that the passion that rules the hearts of Fëanor’s sons would only bring folly. But now I realize that it may also bring wisdom,” Melian said softly and turned to the door. “Will you play for us this evening? You will find everything you need in this room, because it once belonged to Daeron.”

“Everything has a price, Melian,” Maglor warned her and suddenly realized what was standing in the corner of the room under the green velvet cloth.

“I will do whatever is in my power,” she promised him and slipped out into the hallway.