Swan Song by Ithilwen

Swan Song

"And so it is told of Maglor that he could not endure the pain with which the Silmaril tormented him; and he cast it at last into the Sea, and thereafter he wandered ever… he never came back among the people of the Elves." (The Silmarillion)

"Not all those who wander are lost" (The Lord of the Rings)

Chapter 1 – Thunderstruck

Maglor only knew he was in real trouble when he saw the straps on the table.

True, over the passage of time the mortal world had become increasingly difficult for him to comprehend. Was there no end to the rate at which Men could embrace change? The accelerating tempo had long since surpassed his own limits of tolerance, and he'd retreated more and more to the fringes of their world – fringes that had become ever more difficult to find, as human numbers relentlessly expanded and crowded out the wild places of the land. Despite his best efforts at avoidance, he was increasingly forced to deal with mortals on their terms rather than his, and not surprisingly he'd made his share of mistakes in the process. This had not been the first time he'd been locked up; it was never a pleasant experience to endure, but he'd learned that provided he was quiet and patient, they always released him eventually. He'd learn from the experience and try to avoid whatever mistake had led to his imprisonment (hard to do, as what constituted such a mistake seemed to change as quickly and arbitrarily as everything else in the mortal realm). But that at least had seemed to be one rule which remained a constant over the long, long years of his exile: be quiet, cause no trouble, and the mortals will eventually relent and let you go.

Apparently that rule had now changed as well.

He fought, but he was outnumbered, and he no longer wielded the strength which once allowed him to contest with Balrogs. Fading had its disadvantages. It was not long before he was pinned down and helpless. "Please let me go!" he shouted, but to no avail; judging from the looks on the mortals' faces, they hadn't even understood his plea. Had he used the wrong language? He opened his mouth to try again. A tactical mistake; before he could say another word one of the mortals shoved a firm piece of rubber between his teeth and held it there so he could not spit it out. Cold metal was suddenly pressed tight against the sides of his head.

Then the lightning struck, and he knew no more.

*******

"Is this the last patient of the day?"

"Yes."

"Good. It took long enough to get him ready; we're way behind schedule. If there was another case to do after this one, I might not make it home in time tonight. My wife's upset with the hours I work already; being late for our anniversary dinner just might prove the unforgivable sin in her book." The psychiatrist down at his patient; the frantic jerking of the limbs was finally starting to subside. Time to go to work.

He pulled the unconscious young man's right eyelid up, noting in passing what an unusually handsome individual this particular patient was. The tragedy of mental illness, the psychiatrist thought sadly as he quickly positioned the leucotome. So often it's the most promising who are struck down. But thanks to modern science, for the first time we have actual hope to offer. Two quick taps, and he'll have a bright new future ahead of him.

He reached for his mallet. Swinging the small hammer firmly, the psychiatrist drove the leucotome home.

Chapter End Notes

This scene is probably taking place sometime between 1945 and 1955, which was the heyday of transorbital lobotomy. The description of the procedure is medically accurate. ECT was often used rather than general anesthesia to render the patient unconscious because it was cheaper, easier to administer, and safer than general anesthesia.

Chapter 2 – Adrift

He wandered.

Once, he sensed vaguely, his life had been different. There had been a time when he had not wandered, when he'd stood tall and proud and defiant. That must have been a very long time ago, though. How long exactly, Maglor could not say. The past was slippery as seaweed in a current, twisting and sliding out of his mental grasp no matter how hard he tried to clutch it. Once that had been different as well, he suspected, but then something had happened – he didn't remember what – and now he floated, a small piece of flotsam adrift on the great sea of time. Trying to stay anchored in the current was hard work, and he was tired, so he didn't try very often. Better to float through the confusion of the days, the kaleidoscope of jail cells, dirty streets, antiseptic hospital wards smelling of pine cleaner and stale urine and unwashed bodies and cigarettes, bus rides, car trips with kind strangers (and those not so kind), which taken together had somehow led to this moment.

Better to float. Much better.

So many other things had changed in his life; Maglor was relieved to see the sea was not one of them. It stretched in front of him as far as he could see, dark waves swelling and subsiding, somehow managing to be both peaceful and restless simultaneously. Maglor liked the tang it created in the air. He did not like the way the lapping waves darkened the sand at his feet; it somehow reminded him of another beach, somewhere else, long ago, with unpleasantly dark sand that had stained his feet red. He decided to close his eyes and listen to the ocean's song instead. Quiet, deep, relentless in its power… Your voice is like the sea. Someone had told him that once; he could not quite remember who, but he supposed that was not important. It must have been someone who had heard him singing. He remembered singing. He remembered writing songs. Somehow the songs in he heard in his head now wouldn't stay still long enough for him to grasp them properly, but he knew that once he'd written songs that had shaken hearts hard enough to nearly stop them. One song in particular… but thinking about that song led back to the lapping waves, and the dark feet… Time to stop thinking about music.

He opened his eyes again, and looked out across the waters. The last sliver of sun had finally dipped below the horizon; in the lingering twilight he saw his father's star floating just over the waves. That was another thing that had not changed. It was still beautiful, and for a moment Maglor remembered throwing another star just like it away. He wished now he hadn't done that, but gone was gone. At least he could still enjoy the one in the sky. That star, he knew, was also somehow tied to the dark feet and his unsettling song, but it was beautiful enough that he didn't mind that. He could sit forever and look at it, and never tire of the sight…

Footsteps suddenly, off to his right. And a voice, faint but unmistakable. "Hurry up, or we're going to miss the tide." Reluctantly he turned his attention away from his father's lovely star, and toward the soft commotion in the dark. He'd learned the hard way it didn't pay to ignore surprises; so often they turned out to be unpleasant.

He saw a small party of people, dragging and pushing a boat across the sand toward the water. For once, an interesting surprise. Thoroughly distracted by their own task, they'd apparently not spotted him sitting quietly in the darkness. The boat looked heavy, and the small group, though struggling mightily, was not having much success; after a moment's observation Maglor decided it would only be courteous to offer them some help. As he approached, he saw an even more unexpected sight: the people pushing the boat were not Mortals, but Elves. He'd walked as quietly as he could, but their ears were as keen as his (and, he allowed, his own footsteps were probably not nearly so quiet as they'd once been). Heads turned in unison, wary eyes gleamed with a not-entirely-friendly light as they took his measure.

It had been so very long since he'd seen another of his own kind! Vaguely he remembered that he'd long avoided these sorts of encounters, but he no longer quite recalled why. In any case, it no longer mattered. They were Elves, and that was enough. He fought with his mind, struggling to remember the proper, courteous introduction; now was no time for harsh Mortal words. At last they came to him. He bowed.

"Elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo."

The effect was not at all what he had expected. The nearest Elf jumped back with a hiss. "It's him! The Kinslayer."

The others dropped their ropes. A tall man went over to the first speaker and laid a hand on the woman's shoulder. "You don't know that, Nimtathar," he said.

The woman shook her head, insistent. "Who else could it be? No one else is left here who would speak that tongue. The last of them departed long ago. All but he."

"Nimtathar is right," a second man called out. "It has to be the Fëanorion. Lachenn he is, though his light is hard to see. What ill-luck this night has brought us!"

"Luck the night has indeed brought us," the tall man replied, "but whether good or ill remains yet to be seen, I think. This is no chance meeting." He came over to Maglor. "Why are you here, stranger?"

To see Father's star set, Maglor almost answered, but then he realized the man was not asking him why he came to the beach, but why he'd approached them. He raised his hand and pointed to the boat. "To push. You looked like you could use some help."

The man grabbed Maglor's outstretched arm by the wrist, turned it over to view his palm. He gently touched the scar he saw there, faded almost into invisibility. "You were right, Nimtathar. It is Maglor the Kinslayer," he called to his companions. In a lower voice he muttered, "We must be the very last ship to leave. No chance meeting, indeed." The man looked up again and stared hard into Maglor's eyes, seemingly troubled by something he saw there. Maglor bore his scrutiny with equanimity. Finally the tall man asked softly, "Maglor son of Fëanor, do you want to go home?"

"No!" the woman shouted, and another man cried out, "How can you even think it, Daerthôn? He is the last of the Kinslayers! You might as well invite an Orc to sail with us!"

"And I would!" the tall man said savagely, spinning around to face his companions. "I would not condemn even an Orc to live in the Anfauglith the mortals have turned this land into." He spread his hands placatingly, and continued in a calmer voice, "Open your eyes. Our ship is mired in the sand, the tide is turning; very soon we will miss it. If we do not somehow get underway now, we will have lost our chance. And yet you think the Kinslayer's arrival at just this moment is an accident? I say otherwise. We are almost certainly the very last ship to leave, and this delay was arranged by the Powers to offer this one –" and he jerked his head toward Maglor – "one final chance to sail. If we refuse to offer it to him, they will refuse us passage in turn, for it is their place, and not ours, to judge him. Do you presume to usurp the role of the Powers?"

The others made no reply. The tall man turned his attention back to Maglor and asked him again, "Do you want to go home?"

Maglor considered the question for a moment. Do you want to go home? He was no longer sure he knew what home was. It had been a long time since he'd thought about it. He tried to think about it now, but no thoughts came at first. So he listened instead to the ebb and flow of the sea: the harsh roar of the incoming waves, the softer rush of the waters flowing back across the sand, rhythmic as a heartbeat, a sound like breathing. And with the sound came images: a white city drenched in silver light, the calm green stillness of forests, a plain-faced woman with nutmeg hair, another woman willow-slender all dressed in white, a tall man with hair and eyes like fire. Come home, the waves sighed at him. He felt a tug on his arm, and brought his attention away from the waves and back to the beach.

"Answer, quickly," the tall man demanded. "We are out of time. Would you go with us?"

"Yes," Maglor replied. It seemed as good an answer as any.

"Get behind the boat, then, and push. You're stockier than any of the rest of us." The tall man waved for his companions to pick up their ropes. Maglor put his hands on the keel of the boat, feeling the rough wood prick his palms, and when the signal came he pushed for all he was worth. The boat resisted for an instant, and then, as though something unseen had abruptly given way, it jerked forward and began to slip steadily across the sand. He kept pushing until the water reached his knees and he felt a wave lift the boat up and toss it onto the sea's back. The others quickly scrambled aboard; the tall man extended an arm and helped Maglor aboard. He pointed to a spot beside the rudder. "You can sit there. Be quiet, and be still. We are grateful for your help, but you are not among friends."

Be quiet, and be still. Once those would have been difficult commands for Maglor to obey, but no longer. Quiet and stillness came easily to him now, as they had not when he had been whole, when he had been home. He curled up in the indicated corner and wondered idly as he watched the tall man take the rudder and the others raise the sail whether that was another thing that would change when they reached their destination. The world had become an altogether too changeable place; he hoped home would be different.

The sail billowed as the night breeze caught it, and the boat, carried by wind and tide, slipped silently through the dark sea. The stars were bright overhead, and Maglor noted idly that his father's star now sat at the very edge of the horizon, where it threw a beam of dazzling silver light across the dancing waves, a beacon to guide their way. He let his hand dangle over the side of the boat, his long fingers lightly brushing the crests of the waves, and lay his head on his knees and looked out to the horizon, drinking in the sight of his father's star, and lost himself in the sensation of gliding through the water.

It was indeed better to float.

Chapter End Notes

Lachenn – "flame-eyed." A term Moriquendi Elves sometimes use to describe the Noldor, who have the light of Aman in their eyes.

Nimtathar – "Pale Willow"

Daerthôn – "Great Pine"

Chapter 3 – Doomsday

Home at first had not been what Maglor had expected.

He had expected peace. What he got was chaos. The boat was met by a large crowd, a crowd that quickly turned from curious and high-spirited to menacing when it realized who the final passenger on the last vessel was. All too quickly he'd found himself bound (he'd fought that in a desperate panic, not remembering exactly why he should not allow himself to be restrained, only knowing that he must not submit to it – but his resistance was futile in the end) and locked in a wagon, and all through the long, jolting ride he lay huddled in despair in the corner farthest from the door and tried to will himself back onto the beach. But it hadn't worked. Instead of the beach, he soon found himself in the center of a stone circle beneath the gaze of beings whom he did not recognize but somehow knew he should dread.

They questioned him, first with words, then (when his tongue and his wits failed him, leaving him cowering speechless under their fierce gaze) with their minds, laying his own scattered thoughts out like pages which they sifted through methodically to find their answers. He was not powerful enough to stop them, and too terrified to try, and so he did his best to submit to their implacable interrogation.

The voice of the thunderstorm, crackling through his mind with a searing flash of blue-white brilliance and the sharp scent of ozone: Why did you swear the Oath?

The voice of the mountain, boulders tumbling and crashing together in a mental avalanche that threatened to entirely bury his thoughts: Why did you refuse our summons to judgment, when in your heart you knew your Oath was folly and you wanted to comply?

The voice of the ocean, blue-green and salty and slamming into him so hard he could scarcely breathe: Why did you wait so long to submit? Why did you not return when we lifted the Ban, as your cousin Artanis did?

The voice of the stars, cold and piercing and incandescent: Do you regret what you did?

And finally, when he knew he could bear no more, the voice of the Doomsman, remote and echoing and sharp as cut glass: You have committed great evil against many, Kanafinwë Makalaurë, but in the course of your long folly you have succeeded in even more gravely marring yourself. The wounds you have inflicted upon yourself in your pride and stubbornness and fear are more lasting and severe than any which I would have imposed upon your person had your fate been to pass through the doors of my own Halls. Accordingly, the judgment of the Valar is this: that you be remanded into the custody of Irmo and Estë until such time as they see fit to release you to rejoin your kin, whereupon you may go as seems good to you.

And then it was over, and Maglor found himself collapsed on the ground in a tight, huddled ball, looking at two sets of feet. A woman's voice, soft as down, said "Come with us now, Kanafinwë" and gentle fingers brushed across his fetters and they crumbled at once into dust. Maglor felt his spirits rise a little at the loss of his bonds, and looked up timidly into the faces of the man and woman who stood waiting beside them, and did not know them. They seemed to him quite ordinary faces until he looked at their eyes, and then he knew that if his chains had been removed, it was only because these two beings had no need of such crude restraints to overmaster him at will. And so he yielded to his despair and rose to his feet and followed as they led him off to whatever terrible torment they had devised for his punishment.

They placed him in a garden.

He was told he was not free to leave it (and from their tone he knew that meant he could not leave it, try however hard he might), but within its confines he might roam as he wished. And that was all that happened.

Every morning the woman (whom he did not know) spoke with him briefly and touched his head, and every evening the man (whom he did not know) spoke with him briefly and touched his thoughts. The rest of the time he was left alone to do whatever he wished to do. He kept no track of the passage of days, for one was very much like another, but over the slow course of time it felt to him that the currents on which he had been swept for so very long were slowing down, transforming into gentle eddies rather than riptides, and because of this staying anchored in place, though still very tiring, was becoming easier.

The woman was Estë. The man was Irmo. The garden was called Lórien, and this was not the first time he had been to it. He was proud of himself, the first time he was able to remember these things entirely on his own. It seemed an accomplishment.

And that was how he came to find himself lying on the ground amidst a tangle of honeysuckle, head propped against the trunk of a mallorn tree, dozing in the sweetly-scented morning air while half-listening to a conversation taking place on the other side of the tree a few dozen paces away. Maglor supposed his eavesdropping might be considered rude, but it had been a long time since he'd heard other voices besides his own and those of his keepers, so he stayed where he was and listened anyway. He was floating, not anchored, in any case, so the words drifted past him like water (though he rather suspected that he wouldn't understand most of what was being said even if he had been trying to listen to the conversation for the sense of it rather than merely the sound). Faint voices drifted past him on the breeze:

"…will find him much changed…"

"You must understand, we are not permitted to alter incarnates. The most I can do to a hröa in which a fëa actually resides is encourage the hröa's own natural healing process, and that has limits…"

"…more passive than before the injuries…"

"…his memories are like the sun in a cloudy sky: rarely bright, often veiled and misty, occasionally completely hidden. Sometimes his mind can see them, other times it cannot, and it is never entirely predictable…"

"At this point, we have done all we can for him here. He will make more progress now surrounded by those who love him. Any further improvement will be slow, but do not give up hope…"

"If you find you cannot care for him, or should you desire a respite, you may return him to us –"

"That will not happen, aire; he is family."

That latter voice was loud, and not simply because it was male. It was close; apparently the people had been walking toward the tree as they conversed. Maglor decided it would be a good idea to look like he was sleeping, and so he closed his eyes tightly and allowed his mind to float away completely. Once the people had passed by, he'd allow himself to rouse enough to enjoy the honeysuckle. Maybe.

Just as he had drifted into a true sleep, he was roused by a hand shaking his shoulder. "Kanafinwë, wake up." A second male voice; he did not know it. No wait, he did know it: Irmo. Reluctantly Maglor opened his eyes; he was pleased to see that he had in fact got it right. Irmo was holding out his hand to help Maglor onto his feet. Maglor was sad to be leaving the honeysuckle, but there was no helping it; Irmo wanted him on his feet, and so he must rise. He took the proffered hand and let Irmo help him up. "There are some people here who are eager to see you, Kanafinwë," his keeper said, smiling. Maglor walked with Irmo around to the other side of the tree, where he saw Estë conversing with three people. A plain-faced woman with nutmeg hair. A tall man with his right hand missing, and hair and eyes like fire. Another woman, dark-haired and slender as a willow stick. He looked at them for a long moment, trying to remember, and then his heart leapt with joy.

"Russandol!" he said to the man, and "Mother!" he said to the nutmeg woman. And Nerdanel took him into her arms and hugged him so hard and so long he could barely breathe, while he let his head rest on her shoulder.

A second hug followed, from his brother, shorter and less constricting. "Welcome back, filit," his brother said to him as he let Maglor go. "We've missed you."

That left the willow-woman. Maglor turned and looked carefully at her; she seemed to be waiting expectantly for something. He thought hard: nothing. "I don't know you," he finally said to her, and watched as she bit her lower lip and bright tears filled her eyes, not understanding why his words caused this stranger so much pain. Beside him Nerdanel gasped; apparently he'd upset his mother too. It was very confusing.

Russandol, his voice sad, said, "Filit, that's your wife, Aurel."

Maglor shook his head; he was sure he'd remember something as important as having a wife. Clearly there'd been some sort of mistake, but it could be sorted out later. Ignoring the willow-stranger, he turned his attention back to his mother. "I'm so glad you've come to visit me," he said to her.

His mother took both his hands into her own. "We haven't come to visit you, Makalaurë. We've come to take you home." She started to lead him away; Maglor noticed that his brother and the willow-woman remained behind talking with Estë, but he was only able to hear brief snatches of their conversation.

"…mind may not recognize your face, but his fëa knows your own, for you are bondmates. Touch him that way, fëa to fëa, and he will know you…"

"No, this is not the worst challenge you will all face, Maitimo; that lies ahead of you, when he has healed enough to be aware of the full extent of his injuries and the severity of his limitations…"

He wished he hadn't overheard those bits; they sounded ominous. But he quickly put them out of his mind, for he had something more enjoyable to think about. After more wandering than he could remember, he was at last going home to stay.

Chapter End Notes

The Valar and Nerdanel are being rather old-fashioned here, and are using Maglor's Quenya name: Kanafinwë Makalaurë (which means "strong-voiced/commanding Finwë, forging gold").

Russandol ("Copper-Top") is a nickname Maedhros was given by his family, on account of his copper hair.

Aurel – "Morning Star." Thank you, Naltariel, for the name!

Maitimo – the Quenya mother-name of Maedhros. It means "well-formed one."

Fëa – "Soul"

Hröa – "Body"

Aire – "Holy One." The proper way to address a Vala.

Filit – "Small bird." A childhood nickname my Maedhros gave to his brother Maglor.

Chapter 4 – A Kind of Homecoming

The journey home took a long time. They rode; Maglor had not been on a horse in a very long time, and he enjoyed the sensations of riding: the gentle swaying of the horse's body under his and the feel of its muscles moving, the strong clean scent of its sweat, the coarse mane slipping through his fingers, the creak of leather and the sharp ringing sound of shod hooves striking rock. They rode down roads Maglor did not know, and through fields and woods he did not recognize, and sometimes spent the night camped under the open sky and sometimes rented rooms in small villages filled with strangers who watched him with wary eyes but said nothing. Maglor cheerfully ignored them in turn; he was far too interested in conversing with his mother and brother to bother much with strangers (including the willow-woman, who, annoyingly, was accompanying them on their journey).

The willow-woman was becoming a problem. She kept trying to draw close to him; Maglor in turn found her clinginess increasingly irritating but tolerated her as best he could for the sake of his mother and brother, who were clearly fond of the woman. The first night they slept at an inn Maglor quite unexpectedly found himself sharing a room with her. He quite gallantly offered her the bed and spent the night wrapped up in a blanket sleeping on the floor while she wept. To Maglor's relief, the next time they stopped for the night in a town he shared a room with his brother instead, while the willow-woman stayed with his mother; he felt that was a far more satisfactory arrangement altogether.

"Be patient," he overheard his mother whisper to the willow-woman one evening when they stopped to set up camp. "Remember what Estë said, and do not give up hope! I am sure we will find a way around this problem. You have waited so many long years already; what are a few more days or weeks compared to that?" Maglor did not like what he had overheard, his mother conspiring with the willow-woman against him, and afterwards took even more care to avoid her.

Later, another conversation overheard: his mother, "I do not understand this. How can he not remember? He was utterly besotted with her!", followed by his brother, "Perhaps that is the problem? It was rather a whirlwind courtship, and they were not together long before our Exile tore them apart. Perhaps it is simply a problem of not enough memories of her in his mind for him to recall?" Maglor ignored that conversation as meaningless. He had the memories he had, and they did not include the willow-woman; therefore she was of no importance in his life, and he could not understand why his mother and brother thought it ought to be different.

And then, at last, they arrived home, and Maglor to his dismay discovered that, like so many other things in his life, it too had changed over the long course of years. When he thought of home, the few memories that came to him were of a large, rambling house on the outskirts of a shining white city. The small, dusty village that lay before them now bore no resemblance to the images of home he carried in his head, but his mother, his brother, and the willow-woman all assured him that home was where he was, and so he was forced to accept it.

"Mother and Grandfather came here after my return," Maedhros told him as they rode through the quiet, narrow streets, "and most of the people living here were loyal to us during our years in Beleriand, and still feel kindly to us now. It's not the home you may remember, filit, but it is a good place – a better place for us than Tirion, certainly. Few of us Exiles returned there; we've mostly made new settlements of our own, both here and on Tol Eressëa. I'm afraid, little brother, you're going to find out that forgiving is not exactly the same thing as forgetting. While we are free to travel any place we like and none will openly hinder us, there are many places where our family is understandably not welcome."

Maglor considered his brother's words in silence as they stopped their horses in the courtyard of a sizable but plain stone house. A large, stocky man with hair the color of Maedhros's and clothes stained with sweat and soot was standing there to greet them. Maglor did not know him, and sat on his horse while the others dismounted. He watched his mother and then his brother hug the man (his mother pausing in the stranger's arms long enough to whisper something in the man's ear), followed by the willow-woman. And then they were all looking at him, and he knew he couldn't put the moment off any longer. He reluctantly dismounted and walked over to greet the man. First the willow-woman, and now this; apparently part of coming home involved being repeatedly mauled by total strangers. But once he was off the horse's back and on the ground the stranger looked somehow different, and as Maglor stepped forward he caught the scent of smoke from the man's hair. Suddenly he saw a vision of the russet-haired man working side-by-side at a forge next to his father Fëanor, while he sucked on his thumb and his brave elder brother held his other hand tight to keep him safely back – "See, filit, that's going to be us some day!" And Maglor knew then that he was looking at his grandfather Mahtan, and happily relaxed into his embrace.

*******

Maglor found himself happily installed in a guest room ("But I thought he would be staying with-" "Later, Father."), and over the next few weeks his mother, his brother Maedhros, and his grandfather acquainted him with the house and its routines, and took him on visits to the village where he was introduced to a bewildering mixture of strangers-who-were-actually-strangers and strangers-who-were-supposedly-friends, none of whom he later remembered. A handsome blond man whom Maglor did not know came for a visit and introduced himself as his cousin Finrod; a handsome dark-haired man also came by for a visit and when Maglor saw him he said, "Hello, Fingon."

Maglor helped chop vegetables in the kitchen, gathered eggs, milked the cow, looked after the horses, helped his grandfather clean up his forge, and worked in the garden. It was confusing, exhausting, and wonderful.

Best of all, the willow-woman mostly left him alone.

Now that she wasn't pressing so closely on him, Maglor was willing to allow that she was in fact quite pretty. In fact, if she hadn't spoiled things earlier by coming on to him so aggressively, and if he had been interested in courting a woman (which, he told himself, he most decidedly was not, not yet), he might even have been attracted to her. She seemed to devote a lot of her time to assisting his mother in her studio, and Maglor wondered whether she might be his mother's apprentice. That would certainly be a good explanation for the otherwise puzzling fact that she was living in their house. She also seemed quite close to Maedhros, and for a brief while Maglor wondered whether she might in fact be courting his brother. Then Fingon stopped by for another visit and by chance Maglor got a glimpse of his brother and his cousin together in the back garden where they thought no one would be watching them, and as he observed the two of them together he realized that while Fingon might be his cousin, he was rather more than that to his older brother, and that it was unlikely in the extreme that Maedhros would ever be courting any woman.

But if Maedhros wasn't courting the willow-woman, what was he doing with her? It was all rather mysterious, not to mention confusing. "I think it might work, sister," he caught his brother saying to her one afternoon. "It's worth a try, anyway. I'll meet you there once I know he's – Oh, hello, filit. Come in and join us!" He backed away quickly, not wanting to intrude, but wondering what exactly it was his older brother saw in his mother's apprentice if he was not courting her, and what exactly the two of them were planning.

The next day was hot, and to Maglor's dismay his brother insisted they go out riding together. After an hour spent riding about the countryside under a brutally hot sun, Maglor realized he'd made a serious mistake, but there was little he could do about it; he couldn't head back for the house on his own, because he didn't know the way. They finally stopped to water the horses at a river and, to Maglor's surprise, after the animals had had their drink Maedhros hopped off, tied his mount to a shady tree, and removed its saddle. "Let's go for a swim, little brother!" he called out as he started stripping off his own clothes.

That seemed like a fine idea to Maglor, hot and sweaty as he was. He quickly joined his brother, and the two of them spent a long time frolicking together like children in the delightfully chilly water before finally coming out to sprawl out on the soft grass to dry off in the sun. Maedhros had packed some food in their saddlebags, as well as a full skin of wine, which the two of them made short work of. Afterwards Maglor lay back on the riverbank, his head pleasantly spinning from the wine, and picked out shapes in the clouds with his brother for a while before deciding to close his eyes for a bit…

…and an enjoyable dream slowly gave way to an even more enjoyable reality as he felt a growing pleasant ache in his groin. He opened his eyes and raised his head, and saw he was erect – and the willow-woman was stroking him with her hand. She saw his head move and before he could object she was straddling him and guiding his erection into place and he felt himself penetrating her…

…and it was as though a veil was torn loose inside of him, and he saw…

…her beautiful white dress hitched up around her hips as, the last of his lacings freed, she reached down and drew his member out. The wedding feast had gone on seemingly forever, but the two of them were finally alone, and now they could finally seal the bond that would unite them for the life of Arda, no time to waste removing clothes, they had already been waiting far too long for this moment. He grasped her hips and pulled her toward him as she guided him into place, and he moaned in pleasure as he pushed himself into her, body and spirit, and she in turn gasped as she received him, and as his hips started to move he watched her face become flushed and contorted by passion and to his eyes she had never looked more beautiful, his Aurel, his beautiful Aurel, now and forever his wife…

…and he moaned, "Oh, Aurel, please forgive me," and then lost himself in lovemaking.

Afterwards, as the two of them lay tangled together on the grass, Maglor gently stroked his wife's hair and said to her, "I am so sorry, Aurel. These last weeks must have been terrible for you."

"They were," she admitted, "although I knew you could not help it." She leaned over and kissed him. "Losing you to all those years of exile was hard enough; to lose you again after you'd seemingly returned to me… I honestly do not know how much longer I would have been able to bear it. Thank Ilúvatar for your brother and his devious mind!"

"My brother is a very wicked person," Maglor replied with a chuckle.

"True," his wife laughed. "He also loves you very much – almost as much as I do."

A dark thought suddenly passed through Maglor's mind. "Aurel – what if I should forget you again? I'm going to try to hold onto this memory as tightly as I can, but there are no guarantees… Ilúvatar be merciful, I managed to forget our wedding night, of all things –"

She put her finger to his lips. "Hush, Káno," she told him softly, "I do not think it will happen again. Our wedding was long before… before your time in the gardens of Lórien. We have to hope that whatever healing Irmo and Estë managed there will make a difference. What else can we do?" But her face looked troubled, too.

When they finally returned to the house, Maglor went straight to his room and began to pile his few possessions onto the bed. His brother spotted him and stuck his head through the doorway to ask, "What are you doing, filit?"

And Maglor smiled at him and answered, "Grandfather can keep his guest bedroom; I am moving in with my wife."

*******

The next morning when Maglor woke, he was confused to see the strange willow-woman lying naked and asleep next to him. But before he could do anything about it she awoke, and this time when she reached out to him and Maglor felt the touch of her fëa, his own responded before his mind could lock her out as it had done so many times before in the prior weeks. And suddenly the willow-woman was transformed before his eyes into his beloved Aurel, and Maglor realized as he sank back into her arms that in some matters it was better to trust the wisdom of his heart over the truth of his memories.

And so Maglor son of Fëanor came home at last.

Chapter End Notes

Filit – "Small bird." A childhood nickname my Maedhros gave to his brother Maglor.

Káno – A shortened form of Maglor's Quenya father-name Kanafinwë.

Fëa – "Soul"

Chapter 5 – The Kindness of Strangers

Over time Maglor's life slowly settled into a predictable rhythm. He helped around the house, he made love to his wife, he spent the evenings relaxing with his family and whatever guests came by. Things seemed peaceful enough, at first.

The clouds blew in gradually.

Fingon came to visit often, and Maglor was glad to see him not only because he enjoyed his cousin's company but because he knew how much more his brother enjoyed it. But then the day came when a stranger claiming he was Fingon asked to come inside the house. Maglor, who was the only one of the family actually inside at that moment, took one look at the man and knew he was definitely not Fingon and quite sensibly refused to let the fellow in, but the man wouldn't leave. He just kept knocking, and Maglor kept refusing to admit him until Maedhros (who'd been out in the back garden) walked in and heard the noise. He opened the door, over Maglor's objections, and asked the stranger standing on the doorstep, "What's wrong, Fingon?"

And the stranger laughed and replied, "Thank you for coming to my rescue, cousin. Your brother wouldn't let me come in." And as he watched his elder brother let the stranger inside, Maglor realized to his horror that the fellow must indeed be Fingon, whom he'd seen and recognized without difficulty at least a half-dozen times since he'd arrived at his grandfather's house. And yet, even knowing that, when he looked at the man and heard his voice, he still saw only a stranger. Both ashamed and frightened, he retreated to his room, hearing the stranger calling out to him as he left, "It's all right, Maglor, no hard feelings."

Much later that day Maedhros sought him out and told him gently, "No one is going to lie to you here, filit. If someone claims to be a relative or a friend, it's safe for you to believe them, even if you don't recognize them right away." After that, Maglor opened the door to anyone on general principles, whether he knew them or not. But as far as Maglor was concerned, that did not solve the problem: he'd forgotten the face and voice of someone he'd thought he'd known, that until that moment he had known. For the first time, he truly realized how little trust he could place in his own memory.

Of course, that was better than the time his cousin Angrod called. Maglor had no memory whatsoever of a cousin Angrod; he didn't even recognize the name.

Then there was the morning he was sent out to the hen house to quickly gather a few eggs for the family's breakfast. Half an hour later, when no eggs appeared and the rest of their breakfast was on the verge of burning, Aurel found him inside the barn tending the horses. A few gentle questions revealed that Maglor, on the way to the hen house, had been distracted by the sight of their farm cat running into the barn; he'd followed, out of curiosity, and when he spotted the horses he set to work currying them and giving them their morning grain, having by then totally forgotten about his original task. After that there was the time he completely forgot to milk the cow, and the time he forgot to take the laundry down from the clothesline before the coming rainstorm broke, and the time he forgot to start dinner…

Some days were definitely better than others, but after a few such incidences the rest of the family quickly agreed amongst themselves that one of them would always have to help Maglor work on any truly important task if they wanted to be sure it actually got done.

He tried as best he could to hide it, but Maglor soon realized he was hopeless with money. He remembered that copper and brass coins were worth less than silver, which in turn was worth far less than gold, but try though he did, he simply couldn't remember how many coppers were in a brass coin, how many silver pennies added up to a gold piece. Sent to the village to purchase some pastries, he looked at the confusion of coins in the purse Nerdanel had given him and could not figure out how much to hand over to the baker. Too proud to ask for help with such a simple task, in desperation he handed the woman a gold piece and hurried out of the store with his wares, hoping it had been enough. Later that day he was shamed when, looking out his window, he'd spotted the baker woman down in the courtyard talking to his mother, and he realized he'd underpaid. On his next trip, he gave the baker woman two gold pieces. (After hearing the story of how Nerdanel's befuddled son had given the village baker woman at first two week's, and then a full month's, wages for a dozen pastries, the local merchants all agreed to set up a credit account for Mahtan's family in order to spare both Maglor's pride and the family's savings.)

His handwriting was atrocious; he kept mirror-reversing tengwar, changing the entire sense of words. The result was often gibberish to anyone outside his family, and even they frequently struggled to make sense of what he'd written. At least he could still read, after a fashion. He could, if he made a great effort to concentrate, keep his attention focused long enough to decipher a paragraph or two of text – but no more. By the time he'd reached the bottom of a page, he'd have forgotten entirely what he'd read at the top of it. An entire book was completely beyond him. He'd managed to keep that shameful fact hidden for longer than he'd hoped; it wasn't until Maglor's greatest loss (at least in his eyes) became apparent to all that reading books aloud became the primary family evening pleasure.

He'd lost his music.

Oh, it was still there inside him; he could hear it beating against the confines of his head, a resplendent winged thing desperate to be released to fly. But the first time the family had all gone to the small village inn for an evening of public merriment and someone passed him a harp and begged, "Play for us, Maglor!", no sounds came forth from either his hands or his throat. He knew he knew songs, many dozens of them – but at that moment, he could not bring the words, or the melodies, or even the titles of any of them to mind. It seemed that memories of the people and events in his life were not the only things his traitorous mind was determined to erase. To Maglor at that moment, it felt as though the expectation he saw in all those eager faces had completely frozen his scattered wits, as if it was the Helcaraxë rather than a friendly crowd in front of him. Mercifully, his wife quickly came to his rescue, removing the harp from his hands while telling the small crowd that her husband was too tired to play right then, but Maglor knew she'd spotted the panic in his eyes and he was ashamed. The harp had quickly been passed to Fingon, and when his cousin began to play a melancholy lay, Maglor closed his eyes, grateful for a socially acceptable excuse to weep.

Afterwards, his family tried hard to convince him that it was simply a one-time incident, the sort of thing that could occasionally happen to anybody, and for their sake he pretended to agree, but in his heart Maglor knew better. He'd been performing in front of larger and more demanding crowds than the one in the village that night long before he'd even reached his official age of majority; he was far, far too seasoned to be so incapacitated by mere nervousness. This frozen state was a new thing, and he had a terrible suspicion that it would not be going away.

Time proved him right. At home, it was sometimes different; occasionally if he picked up his harp and simply fingered it without thinking, the result was a melody rather than merely a discordant set of notes, and if someone in his family named a specific song he might manage to recall the words (especially if the others began to sing first). But more often than not, nothing came and he was left standing there mute, the chaotic jumble in his mind effectively freezing him into silence.

Nor could he write new music; the same concentration problems which dogged his reading also kept him from composing anything of consequence. He'd manage a couple of lines at most before his attention wandered and allowed the nascent song in his head to slip away forever. When he turned away from whatever had distracted him and back to the piece, he'd find himself contemplating a dead thing. No amount of willpower, he found, would bring the stillborn tune back to life.

He was no longer a bard.

Music had always been the heart of his life. Even during his long, lonely years of exile, it had been there for him, as his other loves had not. It was the one thing in his life he'd always wanted, the one gift he'd always been sure of, the only area of his life where he'd always and justifiably felt proud of his accomplishments. He was born a musician; that was his very essence: a commanding voice, forging gold.

And now, suddenly, he was not. But if he was no longer a bard, no longer the greatest voice of the Noldor, then what was he?

Maglor thought he knew the answer to that question. Nothing. He was nothing. A hopeless cripple, a useless mouth to feed, and a burden on his kin. And how he hated it!

And he also grew to hate his family as well, who cruelly taunted him by refusing to see him so. How he came to despise their gentle concern, and their seemingly endless patience with his limitations and his mistakes, and their smothering love! He hated the way they refused to return his sullen anger, the way they mocked him by hiding the resentment toward him that he was certain they felt in their hearts. Maglor knew he contributed nothing of any value to the family sufficient to offset the burden his presence placed on them; how dare they pretend otherwise?

For he knew it was pretence; once or twice he'd overheard them talking amongst themselves about him when they thought he was elsewhere and unable to overhear, and in his absence they'd felt no need to cloak their true feelings under a disguise of syrupy-sweet affection.

"Why is he acting like this? When he first came back, Russandol, I was so happy; now I feel like we're living with an Orc."

"He's angry, sister, at how badly hurt he is, and he's taking it out on us. Estë warned us about this, remember?"

"Her warning us does not make his current behavior any easier to bear, son. It may be time for us to make it clear to him that we, too, have our limits."

Finally the day came when Maglor decided he'd had enough. The morning had started out badly when he managed to burn breakfast despite his grandfather's assistance in the kitchen, and only proceeded to get worse, culminating in a ferocious argument with his wife over some triviality he now could no longer remember. The aftermath of the fight had seen Aurel weeping in their shared room and Maglor storming off in a blind fury. That afternoon had found him striding through the dense woodlands north of the small village, contemplating his options. His formerly-incandescent rage, while not entirely gone, had burned down to a small coal, and he was beginning to regret the harsh words he'd thrown at his wife earlier that day. Done was done, though, and he could not see himself going back, not after the way he'd treated her. And it was certainly unlikely anyone in the family would welcome him back even if he did decide to return. No, returning home was out. But his other options looked bleak. Though he hated to admit it, brutal honesty forced him to admit that he probably couldn't survive for long entirely on his own. Living off his uncles' or cousins' charity would be even more humiliating than living off of his grandfather's; he rejected that possibility at once. Perhaps he could return to Lórien? He knew little of gardening beyond tending his mother's vegetables, but he was willing to learn – assuming, of course, he thought bitterly, that I'm even capable of learning anything new…

"Well met, Maglor son of Fëanor."

Startled out of his reverie, Maglor looked up to see an unfamiliar man standing before him on the forest path. He studied the man carefully, searching his memory as best he could, but came up with nothing. Apart from being dressed entirely in grey, the stranger was utterly nondescript – but there was something about his eyes that made Maglor certain he was very, very old. "Forgive me," Maglor replied, "but I do not think I know you."

"I would not expect you to," the stranger replied. "You may call me Olórin. May I join you?"

The name meant nothing to Maglor. He shrugged. "Suit yourself. I do not own the path."

The stranger fell into step next to Maglor, and the two men walked side-by-side in silence for a time. Finally the stranger said, "Forgive me if I pry, but you seem heavy of heart, son of Fëanor. I find this surprising. Should you not be happy, now that your long exile from these lands is finally over?"

"Returning here was a mistake. I should have remained in the mortal lands."

"Why do you say that?"

There was a certain freedom to be found, Maglor realized, in conversing with a total stranger he was unlikely to ever meet again (or recognize if he did). And there was something about Olórin's manner which encouraged openness. For the first time in weeks he felt he could speak frankly. "My body may look hale enough, but my memory, my mind… they are broken. I can no longer think as I once did, no longer work. A child is more capable than I am now. Here I am nothing but a burden to my family."

"And were you not also a burden to them when you were there?"

Maglor shot Olórin a startled look. "Of course not! I was alone there, they were free of me –"

"There is more than one way of being a burden, Maglor," Olórin replied gently. "Your wife, your mother – all through the years of your exile they knew nothing whatsoever of your fate. Did you ever think to ask them which load they found more bearable: the burden of caring for you here, or the burden of worrying about you while you were over there?"

"Oh. I had not considered that," Maglor admitted, suddenly feeling rather ashamed. He walked silently beside Olórin for a long while before speaking again. "Still, there is no denying that even here I am burdening them, and I do not wish to do that."

Olórin nodded. "That is understandable. Maglor, do you remember how your brother lost his hand the first time?"

"Yes, that I remember. Fingon cut it off, to save him from Thangorodrim," Maglor answered. "What do you mean 'lost his hand the first time'?"

"He has lost it twice, Maglor; that is a new hröa he wears. Unlike you, he did not return from exile, but died and was rehoused. You should ask him about his hand, if you talk to him again," Olórin answered.

"I… I did not know that," Maglor replied, shocked to realize he had no memories of his brother's death. "I had merely assumed –"

"It's not important now. When Fingon brought your brother back from Thangorodrim, I understand he was nearly dead. He was confined to bed for weeks; you had to feed him, bathe him, tend his wounds, even diaper him. And even after he could walk, he still needed a great deal of assistance, especially at first. What a chore helping him was! You must have resented it."

"That was different!" Maglor replied sharply.

"Why?" Olórin replied softly. "Because it was his pride that was humbled then, rather than yours?"

Maglor turned away, his face flushing and his heartburning with a mixture of indignation and shame. Olórin placed a hand on his shoulder. "That is the problem, is it not?"

Maglor made no answer.

"This is not a thing you can flee, Maglor son of Fëanor. Your mental limitations and your knowledge of them, and your shame in them are going to follow you wherever you go – even to Lórien, should you return there. Let go of your pride and your shame; they are hurting you, and hurting your family, far more than any of your other difficulties. I know it will be difficult, but it is not beyond your power. Have the courage to let your family love you, even broken as you are."

"You are saying that I should return home?" Maglor finally replied, turning back to face Olórin.

"I think you love your wife, and your mother, and your brother, and your grandfather, and that you would not be happy in the long run should you choose to live away from them," Olórin told him. "But where you go is your choice, in the end."

"After the way I treated them earlier, I do not know if they will want to take me back."

"You might be surprised at what a heartfelt apology can accomplish," Olórin said, smiling. "Come, I'll walk back with you. It's getting late."

The two walked silently side by side in the softly dappled shade of the forest for a long time before Maglor said, "I still do not recognize you, but from your words it is clear I am no stranger to you after all. Where and when did we meet?"

"In Lórien, during your recent stay there," Olórin replied. "I helped watch over you there, though you could not see me then, for I was unclothed."

"Our meeting today – it was no accident, was it?"

"No. Irmo arranged it. He has long been expecting this moment of decision."

They had reached the edge of the woods; ahead lay the road that would take Maglor back through the village to Mahtan's house. "My thanks for your wise words, Olórin. Please tell the lord Irmo I am grateful for his care of me," Maglor said, bowing slightly to Olórin.

"You may tell him that yourself tonight, in your dreams," Olórin replied, laughing. "Do you wish me to accompany you the rest of the way?"

"No. Some things a man must face alone," Maglor answered.

"Then fare well, son of Fëanor," Olórin replied. As Maglor watched, Olórin's body suddenly dissolved into mist and dissipated, leaving him standing under the trees alone. He sighed heavily, and started down the road to home.

*******

By sheer luck, the first person Maglor ran into when he arrived home was his brother, who was stacking wood in the fireplace when Maglor walked into the house. "Russandol, can I speak to you for a few moments?" Maglor asked. His brother gave him a cool glance, nodded warily, and got up onto his feet, setting the rest of the wood aside to deal with later.

"I need to apologize to you. To everyone," Maglor said. "I've treated you all horribly these past few weeks, and none of you have deserved any of it. Please forgive me."

"Apology accepted," Maedhros replied, allowing his expression to soften. He stepped closer to his younger brother and gently stroked Maglor's cheek. "I was wondering when you would finally get past it; frankly, I was beginning to despair."

"Get past what?" Maglor said, confused.

"Your anger at what has happened to you, filit. It was only to be expected – I remember how angry I felt at first, after I lost my hand – but it's made living with you damned difficult."

"I'm sorry," Maglor replied, not knowing what else to say.

"I know. You couldn't entirely help it, little brother. But that didn't make your behavior any less hurtful."

"It won't happen again."

"Oh yes, it will," Maedhros said softly. "Grief's not that easily mastered, filit. But I expect from this point on we'll see more tears and less anger, and that will be easier on all of us – you included."

"Promise me that if I do abuse any of you again, you'll call me on it," Maglor asked. "That you'll stop coddling me like a child. I am so tired of that."

Maedhros laughed. "Oh, I can safely say your free pass is over, brother. From now on we're going to expect you to act your age, instead of tiptoeing carefully around you while you rage and pout like a spoiled ten year old."

"Good," Maglor replied. "Russandol, may I ask you a question?"

"Of course."

"I'm ashamed to admit this, but I'd forgotten until now that you died after we stole the Silmarils from Eönwë. You went to Mandos, and were released – why don't you have your hand back?"

Maedhros sighed. "Do you remember, brother, when we first brought you back here, I told you that you'd learn that forgiving is not the same as forgetting?"

Maglor did not in fact remember that, but decided that admitting to that particular memory failure wasn't necessary at the moment. He nodded his head in affirmation.

"This," Maedhros said as he raised his right arm to display his stump to his brother, "was part of the price I had to pay in order to leave the Halls of the Dead."

"What!" Maglor was shocked. "I did not know Námo was capable of such cruelty –"

"Not cruelty, little brother – justice," Maedhros replied firmly. "As the head of our House after Father's death, the crimes of our House were my responsibility insofar as I made no attempt to stop them. Repent and atone though we may, those evil acts can never be undone, and their victims will never be entirely whole. Why, then, should I be whole? This is intended to serve as a reminder, to me and to others, that while the Valar have forgiven me for my crimes, they do not forget what I did."

"But –"

"Hush, little brother," Maedhros said firmly. "Remember – I consented to this. And it is just. Maglor, you have been so wrapped up in your own pain these past few weeks following your release from Lórien that you have not been able to see beyond your own suffering. Many of the Eldar despise us, with good cause. Once word of our deeds at Doriath and Sirion reached here, life became very difficult for Mother; some people blamed her for our actions, saying that the fault in us must have had its seeds in her raising of us. Our grandfather gave up his position with Aulë to come here with Mother to this backwater after I was released, to insure his grandchildren wouldn't starve; his work, and Mother's, is the only reason we have a roof over our heads. When Aurel told her parents she intended to resume her marriage with you, they broke off speaking to her, they were so angry. I hope in time things will improve, as we show our people we are truly repentant of our past deeds, but there is no guarantee that will happen. You are not the only one in this family in pain, filit. It would be good if you would try to remember that in the future."

"I will," Maglor promised. "Thank you, Russandol. Now if you'll excuse me, I have three more apologies I need to make – and one of them is going to need to be very abject indeed."

With that, Maglor left his brother to finish with the firewood, and set off in search of the rest of his family. He found his mother and grandfather working together in the kitchen preparing the evening meal; his grandfather accepted his apology coolly, while his mother's response, though quiet, was warmer. He asked about the whereabouts of his wife, and was told she'd not left their room all day.

Three down, he thought as he headed upstairs to speak with Aurel. One very big one left to go. Please let me find the right words!

When Maglor opened the door to their room, he saw his wife sitting in a chair next to the window, gazing fixedly out at the sunset. He walked quietly over to her side, and knelt down next to her so that he would be looking level at her rather than down at her, and placed his hand gently on top of hers. "Aurel, beloved, I am so sorry," he said to her softly. "I had absolutely no right to treat you that way."

"No, you did not," she replied, not looking at him.

"You have been more patient with me than I deserve, and more loving than I had any right to hope for after the way I abandoned you to go follow my father's folly, and you have given up more than I knew to come be with me, and in return I have repaid you with cruelty and bitterness, and all because I was too cowardly to come to terms with my own problems. I know I do not deserve you. But I would like to have another chance to make things right between us anyway. Will you give me one?"

"Yes – this time." She rose from her chair and turned to look down at her husband. "I won't lie to you, Káno. You have driven me to the limits of my patience. I think I will always love you, but right now I certainly do not like you. If things do not improve between us quickly, if you ever treat me again the way you treated me this morning – I will leave."

Pure fear surged through him, and for an instant Maglor was afraid his heart might stop. He slowly stood up, and fought to get the words out of a mouth gone suddenly dry. "I swear to you, Aurel – what happened this morning will never happen again."

"It had better not," she replied, but her voice was softer now.

Maglor put his arms around his wife and slowly drew her close. "It won't," he said to her, and bent his head down to place a gentle kiss on her lips. "I swore it, after all – and all Arda knows by now I keep my oaths. I can't promise you that I won't forget your face, or your name, or how we first met, or even that I'm married to you, but I can promise you I won't forget that."

"Káno," Aurel breathed as she laid her head against Maglor's chest. "There may be some hope for us yet."

*******

"So, it seems your wife has accepted your apology after all," Maedhros said laconically to Maglor when he spotted his brother later that day.

"Yes, she has," Maglor replied. "How did you know?"

"For one thing – you're still breathing," Maedhros said. "For another…" He paused dramatically, and gave his brother a sly grin.

"Yes?"

"Your bed creaks."

He dashed off before Maglor could properly retaliate.

Chapter End Notes

I've taken a few liberties with the depictions of Maglor's mental problems here. The distractibility, difficulty concentrating, and difficulty with initiating tasks are indeed classic effects of lobotomy, but the memory problems are more typical of a temporal/parietal lobe injury. I figure Maglor may have gotten banged around a bit by some of those "strangers less than kind" during his later wanderings, and the resulting head injuries are the cause of most of his memory difficulties. Check out the Wikipedia article on "transient epileptic amnesia" for a better description of what's going on in his episode with Fingon.

Russandol ("Copper-Top") is a nickname Maedhros was given by his family, on account of his copper hair.

Hröa – "Body"

Filit – "Small bird." A childhood nickname my Maedhros gave to his brother Maglor.

Káno – A shortened form of Maglor's Quenya father-name Kanafinwë.

Chapter 6 – An Unexpected Gift

"You need to tell him soon, you know. You won't be able to keep it a secret much longer."

"I know. I just wanted to wait long enough to be sure everything was going to be all right between us first."

"And is it?"

"I think so, yes."

"Then tell him now. There's nothing to gain by putting it off any longer."

"You're right."

Maglor happened to be passing by the door to the back garden when the quiet voices of his mother and his wife drifted in on the breeze through an opened window nearby. Curious, he stepped out into the moonlit night to join Nerdanel and Aurel in the garden. "I couldn't help but overhear. Tell me what?" he asked his wife.

Nerdanel smiled at Aurel. "Good luck," she told her, and gave her daughter-in-law a quick kiss on the cheek before quickly walking back inside the house.

"So, now you are hiding secrets from me," Maglor said, keeping his voice light and teasing, as he took Aurel's hand and walked with her further into the garden and (he hoped) out of range of any other eavesdroppers. "Just what naughty things have you done, Aurel, that you don't want to tell me about?" His voice became more serious as he continued, "Or is the problem something I have done to you, which seems altogether more likely? I know I am not the easiest person to live with now, but I thought we had worked through our difficulties, and that you would tell me if I had done something to upset you –"

"No, it's nothing like that, Káno," Aurel replied, giving him a quick kiss. "Although the problem certainly is something you have done to me." And then she laughed brightly and told him, "Káno, I'm pregnant."

"You're –" Too dumbfounded to continue, Maglor simply stared at his wife for a long moment. "How is that possible?" he finally asked her in a weak voice.

Aurel laughed again. "You can ask that, after the way the two of us have been behaving since our reunion? Don't even try to tell me you've forgotten how babies are made, husband!"

Maglor's initial shock was giving way to…what? A quiet happiness, certainly, but there were other, muddier emotions mingled in with it, he realized. Something to think about later, his true feelings about this unexpected news. "No, even I am not that witless," he replied as he took his wife into his arms. "I only meant… We are so old, Aurel. We were both born in the time of the Trees, have seen so many Ages pass…" As he spoke, Maglor realized he no longer had any real idea of just how many Ages of the world had passed during his wanderings in the mortal lands, and was suddenly certain he never cared to know. "Such a thing hardly seems possible…"

"More children are being born these days than you might expect, Káno, but you are right: they are usually born to parents far younger than we are. But our marriage was so new before your Oath tore us apart, we had not yet had much chance to conceive; perhaps that is why Ilúvatar has taken pity on us now and given us this gift? You are not the only one of the Noldor to have fathered a child after returning to these lands, you know."

I have fathered a child… Maglor shook his head, bemused at the thought, then looked down at his wife. "I can't believe you told my mother the news before you told me."

"I didn't. She discovered the truth on her own." Aurel saw the puzzled look in her husband's eyes and explained, "Your mother is clever – and observant. She often helps me with the laundry, and noticed I was no longer washing out my moon cloths."

"Moon cloths?"

"Six brothers, and no sisters… I suppose it's not surprising you've forgotten about those," Aurel said with a soft laugh. "A woman who is not pregnant bleeds once a month, love. She'd noticed I wasn't. Anyway, when she confronted me about it, I saw no reason to deny it. In truth, I wanted her advice."

"Well, that's understandable. After bearing the seven of us, I suppose there's little about pregnancy my mother doesn't know –"

Aurel's voice suddenly became quiet. "Not about that, Káno. I wanted to ask her whether I should tell you anything. You see, she discovered my secret when I was considering leaving you."

"And what did she say?" Maglor forced himself to ask. Had things gone differently, I might never have known my child!

"She told me that a child needs to know both its parents, and that you would have to be told eventually, no matter what I decided. That if I did choose to leave, I need not share the pregnancy itself with you, but in time I would have to share the son or daughter that would come of it." Aurel sighed, and rested her head on Maglor's shoulder. "Fortunately that is no longer a decision I need to worry about making. I'm not going anywhere, Káno."

Maglor held his wife tight for a long, quiet moment while he silently shuddered at the realization of how close he had come in his misplaced anger to losing everything. If he had not listened to Olórin that day, if he had gone to Lórien instead of returning home, if Aurel had not forgiven him… "You cannot know how grateful I am for that, Aurel," he finally told her, meaning every word. "I want you – and our child – in my life. Our child… Is it a boy or a girl?"

"Yes."

Maglor looked down at Aurel's face, and knew that she was teasing him, and laughed. "I did set myself up for that one. Let me ask again. Can you tell the sex of the little one you are carrying? Not that it matters in the slightest, of course –"

She shook her head. "I've heard that some women can tell. Your mother said she knew that you and your brothers were male while she was carrying each of you, but then given how wild and bold the seven of you turned out, it would have been difficult, I imagine, to mistake any of you for females. But our child… no, I cannot tell for certain. Although to me the touch of its fëa feels very like yours; perhaps that means it is a boy? In any case, we will know in seven months."

"Seven months! You mean you are already five months along? But that would mean our child was conceived almost as soon as we were reunited, Aurel." Maglor was stunned, and more than a little hurt, to realize his wife had concealed the truth from him for such a long time.

"Not 'almost,' Káno. You got this child on me at the riverbank that day when your brother tricked you into lying with me. When I coupled with you then, I was willing my body to conceive if Ilúvatar would permit it," Aurel told him.

"Why then? Why that way? When you first lay with me that day, I didn't even know who you were! Why did you not wait to conceive our child until after my memory of you was restored, when I could participate more actively in the process and –"

"You did participate as actively as was necessary; my current physical state is ample proof of that," Aurel said, placing a finger across her husband's lips in a gesture bidding him to be silent. "As for the timing… let me explain before you judge me too harshly. Káno, I know you will disagree with this, but the worst mistake I ever made in my life was not following you across the sea. My cowardice – and that is what it was, cowardice, make no mistake about that – cost me not only you, which was terrible enough, but also any hope of a family. Year after agonizing year I waited for your return, barren, my womb aching, while all around me others were fruitful. And then return you did – but not as my husband, for you did not even recognize me. When I climbed onto you that afternoon, it was without knowing whether we would ever make love again afterwards. I hoped our union would restore your memories of me, but I could not know for certain. And so I willed my body to conceive so that if your memories were not in fact restored by our lovemaking, and our marriage was thus effectively ended, I would depart with something more than just sweet memories to remember you by. It was selfish, I know."

"Yes, it was. Very selfish," Maglor answered softly. "And very understandable. I certainly cannot begrudge you that, Aurel. But why wait so long to tell me?"

"At first, I waited to be certain. A new child's fëa is so small it can barely be felt, Káno; it wasn't until I skipped my first two moon flows that I could be completely sure that I had indeed conceived on that day, as I had suspected I had. But by then you were already growing so angry and short-tempered and resentful… I was not going to raise a child in such an atmosphere. I waited then because I needed to see if things were ever going to change; if they had not, I would have left and borne our child alone, and waited until our child was of age before informing you of your fatherhood. Believe me, love, I am very, very glad it did not come to that! I want you with me through this; I am looking forward to holding our baby, but not to the actual process of bearing it…"

"Like you, Aurel, I am not going anywhere," Maglor reassured her. "I am not sure what help I can actually offer you apart from simply being here –"

"That will be enough," Aurel said, smiling. "It will make more difference than you can know, love. Oh – there is one more thing you can do."

"And that would be?"

"Talk to your grandfather. We're going to need him to fashion a cradle."

Chapter End Notes

Káno – A shortened form of Maglor's Quenya father-name Kanafinwë.

Fëa – "Soul"

Chapter 7 – Dagor Aglareb

Maglor did not understand how seven months could pass both so slowly and so very quickly simultaneously.

His wife's belly slowly grew rounder, her breasts fuller. Then the day came when Aurel placed Maglor's hand on her abdomen and he felt a faint fluttering beneath her skin, quick and soft, the first early stirrings of their child in her womb – and in an instant, everything changed. Until that moment, he realized, her pregnancy had not seemed entirely real to him, but there was no denying the truth now: something new had come into both their lives, and soon everything would be changed as a result. He had pretended to be pleased, but the feelings those subtle movements beneath his hand had evoked were in fact panic. I am not ready for this! I do not know how to be a father! But of course he could not say that to his wife, and his child-to-be hardly cared. So he spoke to his brother instead.

"Stop fretting, filit. I dare say you will figure things out as you go. It's not as though you are entirely unused to young children, not after growing up with five younger brothers."

"That's hardly the same, Russandol."

"A baby is a baby, filit. Hard though you may find it to believe at the moment, yours will be no different."

"But babies grow. However am I going to teach a child?"

"The same way Father taught us, I expect – by example."

"And just what sort of example am I going to be capable of setting for my son? What lessons will I be able to impart? Book knowledge? The value of perseverance and hard work? Independence? It's possible I won't even be able to remember my son's face from one day to the next! He'll think me a laughingstock, Russandol."

"No, he won't. The rest of us will teach him those things. You will have other lessons to impart."

"I wish I could believe you –"

"Hush, filit. You worry too much."

Somehow Maglor did not find his brother's reassurances at all reassuring.

Then the day arrived when he touched Aurel and felt for the first time, not merely their unborn baby's movements, but a small bright spirit brushing against his own through the bond he shared with his wife. And for the first time the child he could feel stirring inside her womb felt like his child, an actual person rather than simply a vaguely threatening object, and Maglor laughed at the wonder of it. Though he remained worried about his ability to live up to the challenges fatherhood promised, his anxiety was now accompanied by a growing eagerness to meet this new small person he'd helped create. Perhaps, he decided, his brother Maedhros was right after all. In any case, he now had more pressing matters to be anxious about.

He was alarmed by how much energy the pregnancy seemed to be draining from Aurel. She was so tired by the end of the day! And more and more her attention seemed to be focused inward. Surely this could not be normal, this fatigue? He discussed his worries first with Aurel, who reassured him that everything was fine, and then (suspecting his wife was not being entirely truthful) with his mother, who laughed.

"Carrying a child is hard work, son," Nerdanel told him, smiling. "It was no different with me when I was pregnant – and your father was just as concerned then as you are now, that first time when I was carrying Russandol. By the time you came along, thankfully he'd learned better. Just be there for your wife, and do what you can to ease her discomfort, and try not to worry so much. This is normal."

"But surely I'd remember it if you had looked like this when you were carrying my younger brothers!" Maglor replied, realizing as he said it that in fact he had few memories of his mother's pregnancies.

"You were a child then, Káno. Children seldom notice their parents' difficulties, for they are too wrapped up in themselves. You knew that I was there for you, which was something that as a child you took for granted; you simply did not notice when I was tired."

"Oh," Maglor replied. He had hoped his childhood memories, as unreliable as he knew they could be, would at least provide some reliable guidance as to what to expect over the coming weeks; it was disturbing to realize that even had his memory been perfect, they would not.

And so he waited, and he fretted. There was so little he could actually do! His attempts to help his wife more with her work as often as not only increased rather than decreased her burden (and everyone else's), and so hardly proved helpful. Suspecting that Aurel would take comfort in her mother's presence at such a time, he'd tried to encourage a reconciliation between his wife and her parents, but that had come to nothing. At his urging Aurel had written to he mother, inviting her to come and be present for the birth of her first grandchild; the reply Aurel later received warmly invited her to return home for her lying-in. That the invitation did not extend to her husband was plain. "I suspect that once their grandchild is actually here, your parents' hearts will soften," Maglor told his wife consolingly, while inwardly he kicked himself for only managing to make an already painful situation worse.

He found himself limited to simple things: retrieving items from the floor so Aurel would not have to bend down to pick them up herself, helping her rise from their bed and from chairs, carrying heavy things for her, massaging her back when it ached. Then by pure chance, Maglor discovered one genuinely useful thing he was able to do.

As their child grew it developed a positive delight in kicking, much to Aurel's discomfort. One evening when the two of them were lying together in bed and the baby's vigorous kicking was preventing Aurel from resting, a memory suddenly surfaced unexpectedly in Maglor's mind: his father singing to quiet a cranky infant Caranthir. Maglor softly sang the simple melody to his wife, and to his surprise (and Aurel's delight), the kicking quickly stopped. He wasn't always able to remember the tune, but from that evening on, whenever he did remember it, Maglor (grateful to be of some real use at last) gently sang his wife and unborn child to sleep.

Afterwards he'd lie awake for a while, listening to the soft sounds of his wife's breathing while wrestling with the jumbled symphony he still heard in his mind, trying to impose some order on it and bring forth a new thing, as he had once done so often so very long ago. But the music always managed to slip from his grasp in the end.

*******

It was a week past their child's begetting day, in the middle of the morning, when Aurel finally went into labor.

Maglor was relieved. Finally there was an end in sight to the seemingly endless waiting! He knew Aurel had been dreading this moment, and so he tried to be encouraging, but privately he had little understanding of her anxiety. Childbirth was, after all, a natural process; women's bodies were fashioned for it. How difficult could it truly be?

He soon found out.

To Maglor's eye, Aurel's labor did not at first seem so bad. She was obviously uncomfortable during her contractions, but they seemed to be nothing she could not bear easily enough, and they were spaced fairly widely apart. As he suspected, she had been worried over nothing.

But then the contractions gradually became stronger, much stronger, and he winced inwardly when he heard his wife groan with the pain of them. And they kept coming closer and closer together, giving her less and less time to recover in between. Morning slipped into afternoon, which in turn slipped into evening, and sill there was no child.

"What's wrong?" he whispered to Nerdanel, who was holding Aurel's hand while the midwife was checking her.

"Nothing," Nerdanel whispered back. "First children are often reluctant to come into the world. I labored over a full day with your brother Russandol."

A full day! She can't possibly stand that! Maglor thought, appalled, as the midwife told Aurel, "You're making very steady, if slow, progress. It shouldn't be too much longer."

But it was after midnight before Maglor found himself sitting behind his wife supporting her while she pushed their child out into the world. With each contraction her arms gripped his hard enough to leave bruises, and as she bore down, the strain of her efforts forced a cry of agony out of her and contorted her face into an expression Maglor could scarcely recognize as belonging to his wife. I can never ask her to endure this again, he thought as the midwife said, "Just two more good pushes, Aurel, just two more." How did Mother bear this, not just once, but six times?

And then he felt his wife stiffen as she pushed again, and Maglor watched in wonder as first a head, dark and slick with birth fluids, and then a small bluish body slowly slipped out from between his wife's legs. And then Aurel went limp and fell back against him, a look of elation mixed with exhaustion on her face, as their child's first cry pierced the night air and the midwife announced, "You have a beautiful daughter."

Beautiful was not a word Maglor would have chosen to describe the small, wailing creature the midwife laid onto Aurel's bare stomach. Her skin wrinkled and smeared with blood and a white, cheeselike substance, her head oddly misshapen, and still attached to her mother by a ropy blue-white cord, his new daughter seemed more Orc-spawn than elf-child to her father's eyes. But Aurel, Nerdanel, and the midwife were all delighted with this new arrival, and Maglor admitted to himself that his resentment of the pain his wife had endured to bring this seemingly unpromising creature into the world was probably biasing his judgment.

He quickly revised his unfavorable opinion later when, cleaned and swaddled, his baby girl was placed in his arms for the first time.

"Are you disappointed that she's not a boy after all? I know you were looking forward to having a son," Aurel asked him later, as their child suckled contentedly at her breast. Maglor brushed a stray lock of hair away from his wife's cheek and leaned over to kiss her tenderly.

"Of course not. She's lovely. And after so many boys, it's good to have a girl added to this family. Although it's going to be hard to name her; I can't just slap something suitable onto 'Finwë' now, as I'd originally thought to do."

Aurel smiled. "I'm sure you'll manage something appropriate."

"I'm not so sure; after watching the struggle you went through to force her out into this world, the only name that came to me was 'Orchwen' – but that's hardly fair to her. It's not her fault her arrival was so painful. Forgive me, love, but until today I thought battle the sole province of men; I had no idea that women fight their own wars."

"We do indeed," Aurel murmured as she looked down at her daughter. "But ours end in a sweeter victory than yours. Tell me, Káno, did any of your own battles ever yield such a marvelous prize as our little Aewen?"

My battles ended in nothing but desolation, Maglor thought sadly, but aloud he said only, "So our little one already has a mother-name? That's good; at least we'll have something fitting to call her while I'm struggling to come up with a father-name that won't completely embarrass her when she's grown."

"You have time," Aurel reassured him. "The naming ceremony won't be for a few days."

"Good, because I'm probably going to need all of them," Maglor answered.

But to his surprise, he didn't. He watched as his wife and daughter fell asleep together, worn out from their earlier great struggle, and when dawn broke and the first rays of the sun lit his new daughter's face, the name suddenly came to him, shining and perfect as that first morning light. And so three days later, when he stood before the family at her naming ceremony, Maglor gave his new daughter the father-name Tuilir, Song of Spring, for he sensed that her arrival indeed marked a change of season for them all.

Chapter End Notes

Russandol ("Copper-Top") is a nickname Maedhros was given by his family, on account of his copper hair.

Fëa – "Soul"

Filit – "Small bird." A childhood nickname my Maedhros gave to his brother Maglor.

Orchwen – "Orc Maiden"

Aewen – "Bird Maiden"

Tuilir – "Bud Song." Both Quenya and Sinadrin have two words for spring: one for early spring, and one for late spring. The latter has the stem "bud" as its root, so a poetic translaton of Tuilir's Name would be "Song of (late/budding) Spring"

Chapter 8 – The Fledgling Takes Wing

Tuilir's birth indeed marked the beginning of a time of change, just as Maglor had sensed it would. Not long after her arrival, his twin brothers Amrod and Amras were finally released from Mandos (prompting Maedhros to remark, "Whoever would have imagined their skinny little necks would prove so much stiffer than my own?"). Maglor was happy to see them at first, but in the end was relieved when the two of them eventually decided to forsake the slow life of their small village of Fëanorian supporters in favor of a wandering existence in the great northern forests. He found it hard enough to accept his older brother's carefully restrained pity; enduring even larger and less disguised doses from his very youngest brothers quickly became painful (although mindful of Maedhros's earlier words to him, he tried hard to keep his resentment of it hidden, in the interests of family unity). Later years saw the release of Caranthir, who surprised everyone by returning to Formenos to live with his wife, and finally Celegorm and Curufin. Celegorm very quickly joined the twins, and was soon making a fine living as a trader of furs. After a short stay with the family, Curufin journeyed south to rejoin his wife. Not long afterward he returned to the village alone, his face frozen in grief, and like his two elder brothers moved into Mahtan's house. He spent his days working alongside their grandfather, and his nights mostly avoiding everyone else, and Maglor's one clumsy attempt to console him met with such a venomous response that Maglor shied away from having much to do with him after that, figuring that his younger brother's sorrow over his estrangement from his wife would have to find its own release in its own time, but until that day came avoidance was the least painful option for them both. In any case, he was far too preoccupied with his own family to pay too much heed to Curufin's loss.

Tuilir, to Maglor's surprise and Maedhros's amusement, was indeed "just a baby" at first, but she didn't stay that way for long. She grew at what seemed to Maglor an astonishing rate, and it was not long before she had left all traces of babyhood far behind and was the most beautiful young girl the Eldar had ever known or would ever know (at least in her father's thoroughly biased eyes). And as she grew, it became apparent why Aurel during her pregnancy had felt her daughter's fëa resembled her husband's, and why she had gifted her little girl with the mother-name "Bird Maiden," for Tuilir Aewen had inherited her father Maglor's musical gifts.

At first Maglor wasn't sure whether his daughter's talent brought him more joy or pain.

During her early childhood, music had been something which brought the two of them together. He'd kept up the practice of singing her to sleep that he'd begun before her birth, and as she'd grown out of babyhood Maglor had delighted in teaching her to sing the simple songs he remembered from his own childhood. And Tuilir had made it plain that very little delighted her more than singing with her father. But as she grew older, things grew more complicated. She'd beg her father to sing, not a song, but a particular song, and could not understand why Maglor wouldn’t always oblige. ("You don't remember it? But that's not true! You sang it for me yesterday. Sing it for me now, Father! Please?") And she began to create songs of her own – only simple tunes, but like the buds of spring for which she was named, they were signs of a talent which would grow only more impressive with the passage of time. A talent her father possessed no longer, and had never stopped mourning. At times, watching her gift flower felt to Maglor like being stabbed in the heart.

But even when his own spirit was heaviest, Maglor could not help but take pride in his daughter's prodigious talent, and feel joy in her obvious delight in it. I am my own father's opposite, he found himself thinking. Until my brother Curufin was born, Father felt the frustration of knowing none of his sons could ever equal him. I have to live with the knowledge that my own child will inevitably exceed me. May I bear that burden better than my father bore his own! And the bond of music father and daughter had shared so easily during her infancy, though strained, never entirely broke. For Maglor, better than anyone else in the family, understood Tuilir's single-minded obsession with her art, and the effort she would need to expend to excel in it. And so he did his best to encourage her, listening patiently to her rapidly improving songs despite the pain they caused him, and hiring the best music teacher he could find who was willing to come to their small village and instruct her.

It helped that Tuilir's instrument of choice was the flute, which Maglor had never played (although he had composed for it), and not the harp. His own harp, the only thing of real value he had owned, a gift from his family he'd received shortly after his return from Lórien, he sold to pay her tutor's fee; if anyone else in the family noticed its absence, they never commented on it.

And over time flute music began to replace reading from books as the family's evening entertainment, and Maglor found a certain measure of acceptance, and life settled into a peaceful rhythm. Or so it seemed.

The peace shattered when Tuilir grew old enough to understand the limits of what she could achieve in the confines of their small village, and to chafe at them.

"Father, my tutor thinks it's time I study music seriously."

"You are studying music seriously. Why do you think your mother and I hired an instructor for you?"

"She says she's taught me all she can. That if I want to make the most of my talent, I should go off to a school which specializes in music and study there full-time. She says the best conservatory by far is in Alqualondë."

"Alqualondë is out of the question, Tuilir."

"Why?"

"Your birth would be held against you there."

"You don't know that. The Kinslaying was horrible, but it was a long time ago. I wasn't even born then. I'm sure the same is true of a lot of the people living in Alqualondë. They won't care that I'm your daughter."

"I do know that. Our people have long memories, Tuilir. Enough people will care, and I don't want to see you hurt."

"I'm willing to chance it, if it means an opportunity to study with the best."

"It's easy for you to say that now, daughter. You've not encountered real prejudice yet. Your mother and I have done our best to shelter you from it, but the sad truth is that my old crimes have closed some doors that would otherwise be open for you. Studying at the conservatory in Alqualondë is one of them. You can study in Tirion instead. There are many fine musicians there who would be happy to teach you, and you have kin there as well: your mother's parents and her sister, several of my cousins, and my uncle Finarfin. It's a better choice."

"But I don't want to study in Tiron. I want to study in Alqualondë!"

"Alqualondë is not one of your choices, Tuilir. You may study in Tirion, if you wish, or you may remain here and continue your lessons with another tutor. Choose."

And so Tuilir went off to Tirion, leaving Maglor behind to worry.

*******

Dear Mother and Father,

Tirion is amazing! I knew you told me before I left that the city was big, but I had no idea how different it would be from home. There's so much to see and do here! Right now it all leaves my head spinning, but I'm sure once I know my way around a bit better I'm going to enjoy city life. Certainly the music scene is livelier here by far (even if the music schools are not as prestigious as the one I wished to attend).

Grandmother and Grandfather are nice, but I think they fuss over me too much. They told me they were delighted to finally meet me in person, and that they wished I had come to Tirion sooner. I've invited them to come visit us at home any time; I hope you don't mind. Oh, and they told me to send Mother their love. Mother, I think they'd like it if you wrote to them more often.

I haven't had a chance to meet any of your cousins yet, Father; school is keeping me very busy. And frankly I'm scared of your uncle Finarfin. I wouldn’t know what to say to the King of the Noldor if I did meet him! I'm still trying to get used to the idea that our family is actually important. I mean, I knew that, of course, but I actually didn't really know that until I came here. At home we're just ordinary. I think I like that better.

I have a music theory class coming up, so I'd better finish this letter now if it's going to make the post today. Take care. I miss you both.

Your loving daughter,
Tuilir

Dn1;ar Davghter,

I aqologize in abvancn1; for ny hanbvritimg, and hope yov bo not haue too harb a time dn1;ciqhering this ln1;tter. I'm haqqy to hn1;ar yov are emjoyimg Tirion so nuch. It is a deavtiful city, anb your taln1;mts will de grn1;atly aqqreciated thern1;. Yovr mothn1;r anb I niss yov, dut it vas omly natvral that you'b n1;ventvally vish to sqreab your wimgs amd fly auay fron ovr sleeqy uillagn1;. Anan is largn1;, and yov hawn1; sn1;n1;n wery littln1; of it; I rn1;gret I uas not adln1; to trawel vith yov uhen yov uere yovmg, as ny oun fahtn1;r omcn1; bib vith mn1;.

It vas goob of yov to imvitn1; yovr grandqarn1;mts to uisit ovr hone, but bo not dn1; too bisappointeb if thn1;y refvsn1; the invitatiom. Yovr mothn1;r has beem tryimg to comwince thn1;m to conn1; since dn1;fore yovr birth, with no svccn1;ss. Thn1;y puitn1; undvrstandably qrefer thn1;ir louely city to ovr oun rwstic tovn.

Yov neebn't de afraib fo ny vncln1; Finarfin. Hn1; boesm't bitn1; – mot yovng naibens, at amy ratn1;. Bvt bo not fn1;n1;l yov mvst call om hin (or amy of ny kin in Tiriom, for that nattn1;r). I knou thn1;y arn1; stramgers to yov, uhich is sonehtimg I also rn1;gret at tines. If yov bo chamcn1; to mn1;n1;t hin, vatch owt for his fish qvichn1;! It is trvly bisgvsting.

Yovr Fathn1;r, vho lown1;s yov nore than hn1; can n1;xqress im worbs.

Dear Father,

You were right about King Finarfin. He came to one of my school's concerts, quite unexpectedly, and so I was unable to avoid meeting him. I never thought a king would go around attending something as ordinary as a little private school concert, but I found out later one of his own sons' grandsons is a student here, and that's why he came. Once he found out who I was, he invited me to dinner, and I really couldn't say no – after all, his is technically my king. So I got to meet him, and Queen Eärwen, and also your cousins Finrod and Angrod, and Angrod's grandson (who plays the mandolin, and is awfully cute). They were all nice, and King Finarfin doesn't act much like a king at all when he's just with his family. I didn't know the Queen of the Noldor was actually a Teleri! Anyway, it was a nice evening, and I have a standing invitation to come back and visit with them all again. Grandmother and Grandfather were impressed, too. They seemed surprised our king was willing to speak with me. I guess that's understandable; I know I'm not much of a musician yet, and the king has a lot of closer relatives who probably take up a lot of his time. Still, we are family, and he probably knows I've never been to Tirion before, so I suppose that explains it. I'm grateful for his kindness.

Your daughter,
Tuilir

P.S. I thought the fish quiche was delicious!

Dn1;ar Dawghtn1;r,

Yov actwally likn1;b my wncln1;'s fish pvichn1;? Arn1; you svre yov are trwly ny chilb?

Yovr louimg Fahtn1;r, uho mewer covld managn1; to chokn1; doun morn1; tham a dite or tuo fo his wncln1;'s cookimg

Dear Mother and Father,

I have some exciting news, which I hope will not make you both too angry. I am writing this letter to you from Alqualondë!

I didn't know it at the time, but some instructors from the conservatory in Alqualondë were also attending my school's concert that day. A few days after the recital they came up to me and offered me a position at their school, assuring me that it was early enough in the year that a transfer would cause no difficulties. I wasn't sure I should accept, so I spoke with your uncle the King, who told me I should follow my heart and assured me that relations between the Teleri and the Noldor now are not as dire as you imagine them to be. I am sorry if my decision upsets you, but I really do believe King Finarfin is right, and that this is indeed the best choice in the long run (even if I do have to endure a few cold shoulders and harsh words from a few bigoted people).

Your loving daughter,
Tuilir (who is happier now than she can possibly say!)

Tvilir,

Go dack ot Tiriom, nou! This is mot a rn1;pun1;st.

Yovr Fathn1;r (vho is amgrin1;r wiht his wmcln1; tham hn1; is wiht yov, uhich is sayimg a lot)

To his Royal Highness Finarfin, the King,

While I appreciate your concern for my daughter Tuilir, I do not appreciate either your interference with her schooling or your encouragement of her inappropriate ambitions. Tuilir's life to this point has been a sheltered one; perhaps too sheltered, although I do not think a father can be faulted too severely for wishing to protect his child as much as possible from the harsher aspects of life. She has little real understanding of what happened at the docks of Alqualondë on that terrible day so many long Ages ago, and I do not wish to see her hurt by something out of the distant past she had no part in and cannot change. I therefore arranged for her musical education to take place in Tirion, where her birth would be less likely to be held against her, rather than Alqualondë, a city which I know is unlikely to ever extend a warm welcome to any grandchild of Fëanor, however innocent.

I have written to my daughter and ordered her to return to your city at once. When she does so, please see that she remains there, and do not encourage any further acts of rebellion on her part. If when she comes of age she still wishes to pursue this folly, I will of course stand aside, but until that day arrives it is my wishes which will prevail in this matter.

Your devoted subject and nephew,
Maglor

"Thank you for scribing that, Aurel. It's one thing for me to inflict my wretched writing on my daughter, quite another to send the King a letter that looks as though it was penned by an illiterate," Maglor said as he watched his wife fold the paper over and seal it. "My uncle knows the Teleri; I cannot believe he encouraged our daughter –"

"As you say, husband, he knows the Teleri. Perhaps we made the wrong decision when we forbade her to go?" Aurel replied quietly. "Our Aewen's not a small child any more, Káno, and it's cruel to clip a bird's wings just because you're worried about where it might fly."

"That's beside the point. Right decision or wrong one, it was ours, and not his, to make," Maglor answered rather heatedly.

"It seems to me that it was our daughter, and not your uncle, who ultimately made the decision, Káno," Aurel answered. "Finarfin didn't order her to go. I think there is little point in sending this letter. Our daughter's going to do as she wills, and there's not much we or your uncle the King are going to be able to do about it in the end. Have you thought about what you are going to do if Tuilir refuses to return to Tirion?"

"She won't refuse," Maglor said. "I just hope that she returns to Tirion before the anger of the Teleri shreds her heart too badly. Send the letter."

Dear Father,

Like it or not (and I'm sure you don't), I am staying here in Alqualondë.

Your daughter,
Tuilir (who is sorry to upset you)

To my nephew Maglor,

I remember another youngster, long ago, who was determined to go his own way and study music despite the wishes of his father, who wanted the boy to complete an apprenticeship in smithcraft "for his own good." Your father was wrong then, though he no doubt meant well; I believe you are making a similar mistake now. Your daughter Tuilir is no fragile bloom to be cosseted from the harsh spring winds; she is a descendent of Finwë, and shares the family toughness. Not that she will need it. The Teleri's mood has softened over the long years since the Kinslaying; they will not hold an innocent young woman's parentage against her, knowing as they do that her own hands are clean. I would not have permitted my young kinswoman to go to Alqualondë had I thought it would be otherwise.

(You really should have introduced her to the rest of the family years ago, you know. How are the Noldor ever going to come together again as one people if you and your brothers insist on hiding in that desolate hole up north? Know that you are welcome in Tirion, nephew, should you ever feel the urge to return home.)

Your uncle,
Finarfin

Chapter End Notes

Fëa – "Soul"

Káno – A shortened form of Maglor's Quenya father-name Kanafinwë.

The idea that Alqualondë boasts a fine music school (at which Maglor studied during his youth) is cheerfully stolen from Dawn Felegund's novel "Another Man's Cage."

Chapter 9 – Epicycles

"Dear Mother and Father,

"I can't believe my first year at the music conservatory here in Alqualondë is nearly over! I am sorry I've been too busy to write to you much; sometimes it seems as though there are simply not enough hours in the day to practice, complete all my assignments, and still fit in a life away from school. That has been my only disappointment this year, for I've come to love both the beauty of this city and the beauty of the ocean, and I wish I had more time to enjoy them both. Despite your worries, I've had few problems with the people here. I don't make a point of mentioning my family connections, but I don't deny them when they are brought up, either, and if someone tries to disparage me on account of them I either ignore them or ask them they'd appreciate being held responsible for something they had nothing to do with, which generally shuts them right up. I'm not ashamed of being a granddaughter of Fëanor, and I'm not ashamed of my father (because I know you are sorry for what you did then, Father, and have paid for it ever since), and I'm not going to pretend that I am. Why didn't you tell me, Father, that you once went to school here? I suppose you were afraid that knowing that would make me even more eager to come – and you were probably right!

"Since you studied here once, Father, I'm sure you already know about the traditional end-of-year student recital. I would really, really, really appreciate it if you both would come! I promise you that you wouldn't feel too out of place; I'm only a first year student, and I'm told not many people other than the students' parents bother to come to the underclassmen's' recital. You could come to the school in the afternoon right before the recital begins, and we'd leave Alqualondë as soon as it is over. Even though it's a small audience, it will still be my first real public performance, and I'm so nervous I don't know how I'm going to manage to get through it if you're not there to give me confidence. Besides, there's a boy here in Alqualondë you really do need to meet.

"Your loving daughter,
"Tuilir (who is hoping very badly that you will say yes!)"

Aurel looked up from the letter. "What shall we say to her?"

"No, of course," Maglor answered. "It's completely out of the question."

Curufin, who along with the rest of the family had been sitting in the garden listening while Aurel read the letter aloud, gave a short, bitter laugh. "So, the doting father's finally developed the spine to say no to his spoiled darling, even if it hurts her precious little feelings? It's rather over-late for that, I'd say."

Maglor glared at his younger brother, but before he could reply Nerdanel spoke up. "Son, your brother does have a point, even if he didn't express it diplomatically. Tuilir will probably take your refusal to mean that you are still angry with her for disobeying you and going off to Alqualondë in the first place, even though the rest of us know that's not why you do not wish to go."

"Well, she would be partly right," Maglor said in a rather peevish voice. "I am still angry with her. She's created a rather awkward situation as a result of her little act of rebellion. Say no, and she'll probably be the only student there whose family is not attending. Say yes, and I'll be forcing the Teleri to play host to one of the chief Kinslayers for several hours; I'm sure they'll just love that. No would seem to be the lesser of the two evils – but none of this would be necessary had she remained in Tirion as I'd told her to do! Damn Finarfin and his meddling! I should have forced her to go back."

"But she didn't, and you didn't, so it's too late to wish otherwise," Maedhros replied. He leaned forward in his chair, looking thoughtful. "Filit, how would you have felt if Father and Mother and I hadn't come to your first end-of-year recital?"

"How should I know? I can't even remember my first end-of-year recital right now, Russandol. All I can recall of Alqualondë is the one thing we all wish we could forget about the place. Somehow that memory never goes away."

"I remember it, though," Nerdanel said, smiling. "You were a nervous wreck. If you hadn't been so afraid of disappointing your father, I'm not sure you would have been able to make yourself walk out onto the stage."

Maglor signed heavily. "Point taken. She needs to have some of her family there. You and Aurel can go. Neither of you would be as offensive to the Teleri as I would be."

Nerdanel shook her head. "She didn't ask for her grandmother to go. She asked for her mother – and her father."

"Filit, when the three of us traveled to meet you in Lórien, we were occasionally forced to stay in places where our family is not generally welcome," Maedhros said. He raised his right forearm. "And unlike you, I stand out in a crowd; even people who had never seen me in person could see this stump and my hair and know exactly who I was. And yet nothing terrible happened. I certainly would not choose to remain in any of those towns for long, but we were polite and made it clear we did not intend to linger but only wished lodging for the night, and so a one-day visit posed no problem. Neither the Valar nor Finarfin would tolerate any real trouble, and the people know it. Insults and a cold welcome were all we endured, and they were bearable."

"Those places were not Alqualondë," Maglor snapped.

"No, they were not. Survivors of Doriath and the Havens lived in those villages; we all know they are much more forgiving sorts," Maedhros snapped back.

Maglor closed his eyes and slumped over slightly, propping his head up with his right hand braced on the chair arm, as though he'd suddenly grown too weary to hold it up without assistance. "Why am I getting the impression my opinion in this case doesn't matter?"

Aurel reached over and took his left hand into her own. "No one has said that, Káno. It's just –"

"Filit, we'd all have to be blind not to see how you dote on Tuilir," Maedhros said, prompting a snort of derision from Curufin. After glaring fiercely at his younger brother, the eldest son of Fëanor continued softly, "I for one am just worried that disappointing her will in the end hurt you far more than enduring a few ugly insults from the Teleri will. Their opinion of you, you already know, and it matters less to you than your daughter's."

"Perhaps you have a point, brother," Maglor slowly admitted. "I'll think it over tonight, and send an answer to Tuilir in the morning. The recital's still a month away."

*******

Dear Daughter,

Of course your father and I will be coming to your recital! Just tell us the time and place where we should meet you, and we'll be there. We, too, have some news to share with you.

Your loving mother,
Aurel

*******

In the soft glow of dusk, the lights of the nearby city flickered like fireflies. Maglor, who had tied their horses to a nearby tree and was now busy currying them, could not avoid a feeling of dread as he looked east toward their next day's destination. "I am glad you were willing to camp out here, rather than take a room at one of the inns in the city. I do not think I will ever wish to walk the streets of Alqualondë by starlight again," he said to his wife, who was in the midst of pitching a small tent.

"I would never ask that of you, Káno," she replied, looking over at him briefly. "I know that it is going to be hard enough for you to walk them tomorrow under the sunlight. You are brave beyond reason, husband, when it comes to the wellbeing of your children. Besides, this is more private."

"That it is," Maglor said. He finished his work with their horses, then joined his wife by the tent, coming up behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist. "I still can't get used to hearing that particular plural," he murmured in her ear as he let one hand slip down to caress her belly. "After all you went through in bringing our daughter into the world, I could scarcely believe you wanted to try for another child. You, Aurel, are the one who is brave beyond reason, not I. I wonder how Tuilir is going to take the news that she will have a sibling in nine months' time?"

"How many days of joy has our daughter brought into our lives? Weighing that against the day of pain it cost me to bring her out into the world makes the latter seem a small price indeed. I've no doubt the same equation will prove true for this new little one," Aurel said, smiling, as she laid her head against her husband's cheek. "As for Tuilir – unless I miss my mark, I think she'll have little time for her new sibling, for in a few years' time she might soon be setting up a household of her own. That boy she mentioned in her letter…"

"Surely not! Why, she's only –"

"Forty-six. Just a mere ten years younger than we were when we first met, love. Your little girl's almost all grown up, hard though it may be to believe."

"Impossible to believe. I know my memory is unreliable, but I distinctly recall changing her diapers just the day before last."

"And now she stands on the threshold of adulthood, and tomorrow she'll make us grandparents," Aurel said with a sigh. "Such is the nature of time, love."

"No, tomorrow she'll make me face my cowardice," Maglor said, unwrapping his arms from his wife as his attention abruptly turned back to the nearby city. He moved away from Aurel and sat down on the patch of bare ground where they'd planned to light their evening fire, and began to desultorily stack tinder and kindling into a small pyramid.

Aurel knelt down beside him. Placing a hand on Maglor's shoulder, she said to him, "If you were a coward, Káno, you would not be here."

"And if I were not a coward, I would simply walk into that city tomorrow openly and let the Teleri do with me what they will. But I won't. I'll creep into Alqualondë with my cloak hood up to hide my face, sit in the farthest, darkest corner of the auditorium while our daughter performs, and then dash out through the city gates as quickly as possible once her performance is over. Oh, I've faced the memory of that place more times than I can count – even when I was roaming the mortal shorelines and my mind was at its most confused, I never forgot what I did there – and I wrote music lamenting what happened that night, when we all – the Noldor, my brothers, myself – lost our innocence, and started our long, long fall into Orcdom. But I'm too afraid to face directly those I've harmed," Maglor said bitterly, looking at the ground rather than his wife. He picked up a stick from the pile of kindling and poked the ground with it savagely several times before tossing it aside.

"But not too much of a coward to refuse to face the Valar's judgment in the end," Aurel replied quietly. "And not too much of a coward not to go at all, whether hooded or no. That has to count for something."

Chapter End Notes

Russandol ("Copper-Top") is a nickname Maedhros was given by his family, on account of his copper hair.

Filit – "Small bird." A childhood nickname my Maedhros gave to his brother Maglor.

Káno – A shortened form of Maglor's Quenya father-name Kanafinwë.

The idea that Alqualondë boasts a fine music school (at which Maglor studied during his youth) is cheerfully stolen from Dawn Felegund's novel "Another Man's Cage."

Chapter 10 – Swan Song

To Maglor's immense relief, he did not recognize the city of Alqualondë when he entered it. At least not at first.

He kept his hood up as he and Aurel made their way through the crowded streets, in the hopes of avoiding unpleasant encounters. It worked; no one seemed to recognize him. But it also interfered with his vision, which was immensely frustrating. For Maglor soon saw that his daughter was right: the chief city of the Teleri was indeed beautiful, and here he was limited by a cloth-imposed tunnel vision to quick peeks, instead of being able to take all its many glories in properly. Almost he was tempted to throw the hood back and take his chances. Almost. But then he thought about the likely result if he did so, and resisted the impulse. He couldn't help but wish, though, that the subterfuge wasn't necessary, and resent his self-imposed blindness.

Then the two of them turned a corner, and Maglor suddenly found himself looking down the street toward the one sight he knew immediately: the docks of Alqualondë, framed by the great rock arch of its harbor. For an instant he was too startled to move, as jumbled memories suddenly flooded through his mind.

…the soft grey gleam of the stone arch under the light of Telperion, as white ships sail beneath its shadow, their decks laden with fish…

…flames and shouts and screams of pain, the sea air carrying the sour metallic tang of blood, bodies littering the ground all around him, he looks up from the unfolding horror in desperation to see the cold starlight falling on the arch, and atop it the small figures locked together in desperate struggle, and as he watches, the bodies gracefully topple off the arch into the air like seabirds taking wing, but instead of being lifted into the sky on the wind they continue their plummet down into the devouring black waves…

The touch of Aurel's hand on his arm abruptly brought Maglor's mind back to the present, and he dropped his gaze and turned away from the sight of the docks. For the rest of their walk to the conservatory auditorium, he kept his eyes fixed firmly downward.

They arrived at the auditorium a bit early and made their way backstage, where they found Tuilir in earnest conversation with a slight, rather slender young man with striking blue-green eyes and hair the color of ash wood. "Mother, Father! You came!" she called out, breaking off her conversation with her friend to hug each of her parents in turn. She then turned to her companion and said, "This is Aearchallon, the boy I told you about in my letter. He's a harpist, and he'll be accompanying me – and I, him. We've chosen a duet – harp and flute, with alternating vocals. But I'm so nervous, I can't imagine how I'm going to manage to sing even a note!" The young man said nothing but instead met Maglor's gaze with a cryptic stare, and Maglor realized Tuilir's companion almost certainly knew his true identity and, though he was clearly Ages too young himself to have been alive at the time of the Kinslaying, held what surely must be rather conflicted, if not outright disapproving, feelings toward his close friend's infamous father.

So, our daughter's lover is a Teler, Maglor thought unhappily. Not surprising, given the setting of this school, but a definite unwelcome complication regardless. But he kept those thoughts to himself, saying aloud only, "You'll do fine. Just remember to breathe!" Before Tuilir could say more the call went out to clear the backstage area in preparation for the start of the performance, and Maglor and Aurel had to leave. As they went to take their seats, Maglor glanced over his shoulder in time to see the quiet young man take his daughter's hand into his own and place a tender kiss on her cheek.

To Maglor's surprise and dismay, the auditorium was filling up rapidly. "I thought this was supposed to be a lightly-attended performance," he said to his wife as the two of them settled into two of the last remaining seats. One of the people seated behind them overheard Maglor's comment and said, "Usually it is. But some of the students in this group of underclassmen are unusually talented. There's a very good flautist playing, a first-year, and one of the third years has an excellent voice and has chosen to sing the Noldolantë, hence the large audience."

"Isn't that a rather… unusual… choice to sing here, of all places?" Maglor was careful to keep his head turned so his face wasn't fully visible as he whispered his question to the stranger seated behind him.

"An ambitious choice, to be sure. Most students wouldn't attempt that lay until their fifth year, at the earliest. But the song laments the downfall of the Noldor, and who would take more pleasure in that than the people of this city?"

"Oh." Maglor slumped in his seat, suddenly acutely conscious of the sea of Teleri surrounding him, as the man behind him continued, "You aren't from Alqualondë, I take it. Parents of one of the students, I assume?" Maglor nodded, but was spared further conversation as the lamps dimmed and the low murmurings of the crowd died in anticipation of the start of the performance.

One the auditorium was dark and everyone's attention had shifted to the stage and the performers on it, Maglor found himself finally beginning to relax. It wasn't long before his attention was completely given over to the music, in a way that had not happened since long before he'd left the mortal lands for Aman. As he'd expected, the quality of the performances was uneven, but even the least polished of the students showed a nascent promise, creating music that was both enjoyable now and which hinted at becoming something more than merely pleasant in the future. Tuilir, as he'd expected, sparkled – and to his surprise, so did her young partner, who showed some real talent with the harp, and who was possessed of a rich, warm tenor voice which made a pleasing contrast to his own daughter's vibrant, bright soprano. In his own admittedly biased opinion, his daughter and her friend gave by far the best performance of the day. In contrast, he found the more advanced student's much-anticipated rendition of the Noldolantë a disappointment; the young man's singing was technically accurate enough (although it was clear the song's range was almost more than he could manage), but to Maglor's critical ear the music had no life to it. A sculpture of a performance, all cold and lifeless marble, he thought as the final note of the song died. Technically adequate, but no passion whatsoever. He should have chosen something he had enough experience to sing well. Maglor said as much to his daughter later, after the performance was over and she and her young friend met them in the courtyard in front of the auditorium.

"Our piece was so frivolous, just a little duet about the wind and the water dancing together to form the waves. I was worried it was too simple and silly for the recital, but Aearchallon convinced me otherwise," Tuilir confessed as the foursome walked slowly through the dispersing crowd toward the street.

"And he was right to do so," Maglor replied, nodding his head toward Aearchallon. "That song was not frivolous, but light – and the two of you performed it well, which is the whole point of a recital. Better when performing in public to play a simple piece excellently than to embarrass yourself and disappoint your audience by attempting a more ambitious work and falling short, as some of your fellow students did. Leave the latter for your practice sessions."

"So you think Gilhabad should have sung something other than the Noldolantë, I take it?" Aearchallon said, curious. "I thought he did quite well with it, personally."

"He managed to hit all the notes correctly, certainly – but where was the feeling?" Maglor answered. "Your own love of the sea could be heard in your voice and in your harping; when the audience was listening to you, for a brief moment they became the wind and the water dancing, and felt the joy of skipping across the ocean as a wave. That's what you are striving for as an artist, not mere technical mastery. Your friend's rendition, in contrast, was lifeless in comparison – which is hardly surprising, for he was singing about feelings he himself has never known."

"And just how would you know what I have known?" Startled, Maglor turned to see the young singer of the Noldolantë, who had come up behind him unnoticed, obviously just in time to overhear the last part of the conversation. The young man had clearly been stung by Maglor's words, and Maglor silently cursed himself for a fool.

"I am sorry; I intended no slight to you," he said apologetically. "You have a fine voice, and your youth itself is no fault."

"Except that in the eyes of some it apparently disqualifies me from singing anything other than children's rhymes," the proud youngster – another Teler, Maglor noted with growing dismay – replied rather belligerently. The young singer's voice had grown louder, and people nearby were beginning to notice the exchange.

"I did not say that," Maglor answered. "I merely noted that, in my opinion, you are too innocent to be able to sing that particular lay well. That is true for everyone in your generation, and I hope it remains that way." He turned back to Aurel and Tuilir and whispered, "Let's go."

"And just why should I care about your opinion?" the young singer demanded before Maglor could move off. By now, a small crowd was gathering to listen to the argument. So much for leaving unnoticed, Maglor thought unhappily as he reluctantly turned back to face the angry young man again. He does not know who I am, he realized as he looked again at his daughter's classmate, not sure whether he found himself feeling more astonished or grateful.

"No reason, save that what I said is true," Maglor said patiently. "Do you always quarrel with your audience when they dare to express disappointment with your performance?"

Aearchallon had in the meantime stepped over to his fellow student's side; he took the other boy's arm now and tried to draw him away, whispering to him, "Leave it, Gilhabad, you're making yourself look foolish –" But the angry young man pulled away, not content to let the matter go.

"You're not even a bard, are you?"

Once I was, but no longer, Maglor though in sorrow, but aloud he only said, "No."

"As I thought. You're just an armchair critic, then," the young singer said, sneering, "who thinks his age automatically gives his ignorant opinions weight."

Maglor found himself growing irritated. "My ignorance, such as it is, is matched only by your arrogance," he snapped. "You would do well to curb it, child."

"Káno, come away," Aurel said softly, placing her hand on his arm. "There's no point in letting him upset you –"

"Arrogant? Arrogant is lecturing others on something you are too frightened or too talentless to do yourself," the young musician continued. "At least I have the courage to go up on a stage, unlike you and your kind. Let's hear you sing the Noldolantë, then, and we'll let the audience decide whether your opinion of my performance is in fact worth listening to." He gestured toward the crowd, which by now had grown quite sizable.

"Gilhabad, you are an idiot," Tuilir said hotly. "Just ignore him, Father, he's always had a swollen head – it's where he stores the air to move his vocal cords. You don't have anything to prove to him."

Maglor saw the crowd becoming restive, heard a few low murmurs of shock and disapproval, and realized that at least some of the assembled Teleri had by now apparently recognized him for who he was. He looked at the disdainful smirk on the angry young singer's face, and then at the crowd, and suddenly remembered the words he'd spoken to his wife the night before. And if I were not a coward, I would simply walk into that city tomorrow openly and let the Teleri do with me what they will. But I won't… I'm too afraid to face directly those I've harmed. "No, I have nothing to prove to your classmate," he told his daughter softly. "But perhaps I have something to prove to myself." And then, more loudly, "Very well, Gilhabad. I will sing the Noldolantë for you, as it should be sung – provided I can remember the words." He closed his eyes, and concentrated hard.

Maglor was dimly aware of voices ("Káno, there is no need…" "Father, what are you doing, you know you can't perform any more…" "'Provided I can remember the words' – bet he won't, I knew he would be too cowardly to do it, the braggart…"), but he pushed them aside, searching through the confusion of his memories. A fragment – where had he heard this? – drifted into his mind: "…his memories are like the sun in a cloudy sky: rarely bright, often veiled and misty, occasionally completely hidden. Sometimes his mind can see them, other times it cannot…" And to his relief he found his own internal sun was shining then: the words and melody of the Noldolantë were there, clear and plain as ink on a white page. Of course I remember this, for is it not the distillation of my entire life into music? he thought. I may forget episodes, I may forget individuals, but I have never forgotten the entirety of my life, which is what this song is. Sing your life, Kanafinwë Makalaurë! Sing your life, sing your fall…

And Maglor took a deep breath, then opened his eyes (which were now blind to the crowd, focused as they were on the images in his mind), and began to sing in a voice so quiet as to nearly be inaudible at first, but which rapidly swelled in power, like the tide rolling in before a mighty ocean storm. A voice which was like the sea.

Softness, the light of the Trees, a time of peace…

And in the ensuing darkness the Noldocirca discover their own lights have been doused. The wicked alchemy of bloodshed has left them but cinders, fallen from their lofty place onto a parched and barren earth. Despairing, they look up at the high heavens where the Valacirca wheels, a mocking reminder of what they once were and will never be again…

As he sang the final verses, Maglor slowly regained his awareness of his surroundings: the crowd, gone quiet and immobile as stone, the young musician Gilhabad, who dropped his head, shamed, unable to meet Maglor's gaze, his wife Aurel, her eyes shining with mingled pride and worry. And the young lovers, Aearchallon and his daughter Tuilir, Teler and Noldo, arms intertwined about each other's waists as they listened to him, silver and sable commingled…

And to Maglor's astonishment the clamorous music that had echoed in his mind for so long suddenly stilled, revealing a new thing, a single last perfect verse, and he looked tenderly at his child and her lover and sang,

But over long ages blood sinks into sand, and there mingles with the ashes of fallen stars. And from that new soil a sapling sprouts, fragile as innocence and fair as hope, and if it does not blaze with the light of old, it is nonetheless beautiful…

He let his voice slowly drift into silence.

No one said a word. Maglor reached up and flipped his hood back; there was little point now in attempting to remain disguised. He stepped over to the downcast young musician Gilhabad and told him gently, "I meant what I said earlier: you have a fine voice. In time you will no doubt be a singer of great renown. But the Noldolantë will never be your song to sing. It is mine."

"You said you were not a bard," Gilhabad replied. "I did not know you."

"I am not a bard," Maglor answered, feeling the truth of it, for he'd felt the music slip away again even as he completed that final new verse, and he knew if he were to try to perform again in front of this crowd he'd find himself in that peculiar state of frozen immobility that had become so familiar to him. The moment of grace had passed, perhaps forever. "I will never be a bard again, or a warrior, or a prince. I am no longer the mighty Kanafinwë Makalaurë Fëanárion. I am merely a cinder, who somehow managed to throw a final spark this day."

"You are rather more than that, Káno," Aurel told him firmly. "You are a husband, and a father, and beloved." She wrapped her arm around his waist and stood close to him and stared fiercely at the crowd (which was beginning to stir now that the lingering magic of the song had faded away) as though daring them to do their worst. The assembled Teleri did not approach, but neither did they leave. Maglor realized that he and his family were trapped, and stepped in front of Aurel to protect her should the crowd's mood turn ugly.

But before anything could happen, a loud murmur swept through the assembled Teleri and they parted like a wave, allowing a tall, silver-haired man to step into the clear space separating Maglor and his family from the crowd. The light of the Trees shone in the man's eyes, and his brow was adorned with a silver circlet bearing the images of dolphins and seashells worked in abalone shell, and fitted with a shining black pearl at its center. Maglor looked at the man and did not recognize him, but he was reasonably certain, based on the man's appearance and on the reactions of the surrounding Teleri, who this unknown figure had to be. And so he bowed.

"Maglor son of Fëanor," the man asked, "why did you come here today? Did you intend to open old wounds?"

"No, Your Highness," Maglor answered, keeping his eyes down. "I had no such intentions. My daughter is a student at the conservatory. I merely wished to hear her play, and had planned to enter and leave the city unnoticed so as not to trouble its inhabitants. If my presence has indeed opened wounds, I regret it, for that was not my design in coming here."

"This is not the first time your voice has been heard in the streets of Alqualondë," the man said sternly. "The last time it was accompanied by screams. Why should the Teleri permit you to depart our city unharmed? Do you not deserve a taste of what you meted out on my own people those many years ago?"

Maglor heard Aurel gasp in shock and fear behind him, but he kept his head bent down and his eyes fixed firmly on the ground in front of him. "It is for you to decide what I deserve, Your Highness, not me," he answered quietly.

"You have never even proffered an apology to us, in all the years you've dwelt in Aman since your return."

"I had thought it best until now to simply stay away," Maglor answered, "for there is no apology I could offer the Teleri that would equal the magnitude of my offenses to you."

"That you, who were once so proud, can now so freely admit that, and also admit to what you have become, as you did just now in your song, I will take to be apology enough. Be welcome in my city, Maglor son of Fëanor," King Olwë said, placing his hand on Maglor's shoulder.

"Thank you, Your Highness," Maglor said as he straightened up. "My family and I are grateful for your mercy."

"We are not unaware of what befell you during your time in the mortal lands," Olwë said gently. "There comes a point when mercy becomes obligatory. I will leave you to your wife and daughter now." And with that, Olwë turned and walked back through the crowd which, the show now over, slowly began to disperse.

"Now what?" Aurel said, looking at the sun hanging low on the horizon. "We'd originally planned to ride to Tirion after the recital, but with this late a start I suppose we'll have to stop for the night on the way. And we only brought two bedrolls, not three…"

"Stay the night at my house," Aearchallon said. He took Tuilir's hand into his own as he continued, "I think you need to get to know my own family. Four years is a long betrothal, I know, but I somehow do not see either of us changing our minds…"

Maglor nodded. "We will be happy to accept your hospitality, son-to-be. I'll send word to the livery stable to keep the horses for another day." He took his own wife's hand. "You are not the only one with happy news to share, daughter. Before the year turns, you will be a sister…"

The foursome continued to talk as Aearchallon lead them all through the confusing maze of streets to the small house not far from the docks where his own family dwelt. And this time when Maglor spied the great harbor arch, the image which swam into his mind was not one of fire and flames and endings, but rather of silver and adamant and beginnings: a wedding ring.

Chapter End Notes

The idea that Alqualondë boasts a fine music school (at which Maglor studied during his youth) is cheerfully stolen from Dawn Felegund's novel "Another Man's Cage."

Káno – A shortened form of Maglor's Quenya father-name Kanafinwë.

Aearchallon – "Sea Hero"

Gilhabad – "Star (of the) shore." A poetic name for a lighthouse beacon.

Noldocirca – "Sickle of the Noldor." Maglor's making a double pun here, both comparing the Sons of Fëanor to the seven stars of the Big Dipper (the Valacirca), and not-so-subtly pointing out the effect he had his brothers later had on the Eldar, cutting them down first at Alqualondë and then at Doriath and the Havens at Sirion.