Ash and Embers by Idle Leaves

Ash and Embers

Read Ash and Embers

When Finrod rides into the valley of Imladris just after sunrise, half-shrouded in a frosty late-autumn mist, Maglor is certain he's gone mad at last. His dreams have been haunted, of late, some lingering - like shadows - well into daylight. Even Finrod's dusk-grey horse could be nothing more than a figment of Maglor's imagination.

But they are not illusions, or even waking dreams. The light of Aman is in Finrod's eyes, though tempered by time and grief.

He does not greet Maglor by name, nor does he extend his hand. "It's good to see you," he says, instead, without a smile.

* * *

For a brief second, Maglor wants nothing more than to turn and run.

Finrod's face is guarded, near-unreadable. He takes a cautious step forward, as if Maglor's a wounded animal waiting to strike.

"Are you well?" he asks.

"As can be," Maglor replies; his voice is rough with disuse, but some small part of him is grateful he can still speak at all. He looks toward the cottage he'd claimed as his own when the valley had emptied at last, and fights, again, the urge to retreat.

Thunder rumbles in the distance, and clouds move in swiftly from the west.

* * *

Finrod follows Maglor to his cottage, in silence, as the rain begins. It's falling in sheets by the time Maglor lays his hand on the door to admit them inside, and a flicker of lighting spreads across the darkening sky.

"You've been sent to retrieve me," Maglor says, and knows it to be true.

"Yes," Finrod says.

Maglor hangs their wet cloaks on hooks behind the door, and kindles a fire in the hearth. "How did you...?" he says. Find me, he thinks.

Finrod only smiles.

There was a time, Maglor remembers, when there had been no secrets between them.

* * *

Morning brings gentle rain, and the sound of harp-strings. Beyond Maglor's bedroom door, left ajar the night before, Finrod sits in front of the fire - ash and embers, now - with Maglor's own harp in his hands. The song he plays is old - older than either of them, from a time before even the Trees.

Maglor joins him at the hearth, though it provides little warmth. He flinches when Finrod takes his hand, turning it palm up, exposing the musician's calluses he'd never tried to hide.

"Do you still sing?" Finrod asks.

Maglor takes up his harp, and continues the song.

* * *

The wind from the north soon turns wild and cold. They walk deserted halls in travelling cloaks when the cottage feels small and stifling, immersing themselves in others' memories when their own threaten to overwhelm.

Little of importance had been left behind, yet everywhere there are the shadows of what was. How long, Maglor wonders, before he's as forgotten as the circlet on the mantle in the Hall of Fire?

"If I should return..." Maglor begins.

"You will face judgement," Finrod says. "It may be harsh, Maglor."

It's the first time, Maglor realises, that Finrod has called him by name.

* * *

Maglor wakes with a cough, throat burning with dream-smoke. He leaves his bed and strides to the door, ignoring his cloak as he throws himself outside, into starlight and the dull gleam of a thin crescent moon.

Maglor tilts his head up and takes a deep breath of midnight air. His lungs are clear, but he can still smell the ash from his dream of a thousand swans flying westward, their wings aflame and the air grey with soot and burning feathers.

"I threw the first torch," Maglor says, unprompted.

Finrod's footfalls behind him are all but silent. "I know."

* * *

The stars seem to shine all the brighter as the moon begins to set. Finrod's grey eyes are pale in the darkness, showing more empathy than Maglor feels he deserves.

Finrod has not yet, not once, raised the one question that Maglor must answer. Maglor will not give voice to it, himself, but tonight the still air smells of snow. Winter is coming. A decision must be made.

"If I refuse," Maglor says after a long silence, breath misting in the air before him, "what shall you do?"

"What would you have me do?" Finrod asks.

Go, Maglor thinks. Stay.

* * *

It comes without warning, as they warm themselves at the hearth and Finrod sings them late into the night. Later, Maglor will not remember his song, but he will remember the moment when something breaks, deep inside, and the anger, hurt, and regret he never allows himself to feel crests to the surface like a white-capped wave.

It overwhelms him. Maglor finds himself, suddenly, choking back a sob.

Finrod abruptly stops singing. He thrums a discordant note before abandoning the harp, then comes to Maglor without a word and sits beside him, his hand on Maglor's shoulder, steady and calm.

* * *

Finrod is gone when Maglor wakes. There's a letter on the mantle, labelled in Finrod's angular script, and outside his horse has left tracks in the frost.

Maglor throws the letter into the fire, unread.

He takes his cloak and harp; all else he leaves behind. The cottage is left unlocked - the valley is no longer well-hidden, and travellers may, in time, find themselves in need of shelter.

Maglor mounts his horse and sets off at a canter for the Ford - where Finrod is waiting. Where Maglor knew he would be, letter be damned.

"Ready?" Finrod says.

Maglor nods. "Yes."