The Crow and the Swan by SonOfMandos

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Epilogue

Itarillë: Idril
Moringotto: Morgoth
Angamando: Angband

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The herald of Gil-galad appeared exhausted from the journey from Lindon and the hubbub that echoed in the main hall of Celebrimbor’s domain. Seeing that Oropher and Celeborn took care of Gil-galad and his subjects, Thranduil seized the opportunity to drag the young man away. Nobody minded him. In fact, no one noticed.

“Thank you,” the Elf said.

“It’s nothing,” replied Thranduil. “Let me show you where the guest rooms are.”

“Thank you again,” the herald said.

“As I said: it’s nothing. I didn’t want to be in the hall and chitchat. You and I have to work behind the scenes at all times to keep our lands well and alive.”

The Elf blinked with surprise. “How would you know? We haven’t introduced each other.”

“You’re Elrond, aren’t you? I recognised you,” grinned Thranduil. “You corresponded with my father in the past. I often wrote you letters under his name when he was too lazy to think of a proper response. He argued it was for educative purposes in my case to learn how to write like a king.”

“Your father,” repeated Elrond. “You cannot be Prince Thranduil, can you?”

Thranduil’s grin widened. “The one and only.” He quickened his pace. “I have no idea where our host is. In the meantime, you’re under my care.”

Celebrimbor held a big reception in his castle in Eregion for rulers from other Elvish kingdoms. He wished to celebrate the beginning of a new Age—the Second—and times of peace. For once, the world enjoyed a period of respite. It was, according to Celebrimbor, the best moment to feast. The calm before the tempest, he said, ever the optimist.

Celebrimbor was nowhere to be found. So it was Oropher and Thranduil who took care of guests, with Celeborn’s help. Galadriel had hidden, too. Just like Elrond, she wasn’t fond of incessant noise.

Thranduil pushed heavy doors open. “That’s the dining room. Come on in.”

Elrond’s eyes roamed around, appreciative. “The statues carved in the walls are quite unique,” he commented.

“The statues themselves were sculpted in honour of Celebrimbor’s grandmother. She was a master of her craft. I suppose she still is, but she stayed behind in the West a long time ago. The idea of embedding them to the walls is purely Dwarvish.”

“Celebrimbor is a schoolbook High Elf,” chuckled Elrond. “Of course, he’d do such a thing.”

“That’s what happens when one’s the only remaining High Elf born in the Undying Lands. Perhaps there are Exiles who wander freely out there, but I wouldn’t know of them.”

Elrond hummed.

Intrigued, he approached the dining table. He carefully took a knife to inspect it.

“I’ve never seen such cutlery before,” he breathed out. “Did Celebrimbor craft it? It’s beautiful.”

“No,” said Thranduil. “My friend made it. You’ll meet him soon enough. I call him ‘Ló-ya’. It infuriates him.”

“Ló-ya?” said Elrond.

“A nickname. He’s half-Golodh and claims it’s not how nicknames work. He says it sounds stupid. I think it sounds both stupid and endearing, that’s why I call him so.”

Elrond raised his eyebrows. “I’m not foolish enough to call him that. I’m not as fluent as I used to be, but it does sound childish.”

“It shows you are wise,” a voice came from the dark.

“Ló-ya!” Thranduil exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

“Hiding in the corner, obviously,” scoffed Maeglin. “I was polishing a set of spoons. I thought you’d see me sooner.” He stood from his chair and walked up to the two Elves. “Hello there,” he greeted them. “What are you doing here?”

“I brought him here,” Thranduil answered, pointing at Elrond with his fingers. “He looked rather overwhelmed.”

“Understandable,” Maeglin nodded. “Still, I don’t see why you’d be in the dining room over your guest room.”

“It was in the way.”

“Right,” replied the smith. “Are you going to skip introductions, or?”

“I was getting there,” huffed Thranduil. “Don’t be impatient. Ló-ya, this is Elrond, herald of Gil-galad; Elrond, this is Ló-ya, royal smith of Greenwood-the-Great.”

Elrond brought his right hand to his heart and bowed his head. Maeglin did the same.

“You can call me ‘Lómion’ or ‘Maeglin’—whichever you wish to use for me. Don’t listen to that pickle of a Grey-Elf.”

Elrond smirked. “Understood.”

Thranduil muttered something along the lines of ‘pickle of a hybrid Elf yourself’. Suddenly, he clapped his hands and exclaimed, “Did I tell you Elrond is part-Mannish? He’s a hybrid Elf just like you!”

“Is that true?” inquired Maeglin. He tilted his head and inspected Elrond from head to toe. “Before we have a misunderstanding, I don’t have Mannish blood. My mother was an Exile from the West, and my father was born at Cuiviénen. He was a Grey-Elf.”

“Come on,” said Thranduil. “I was testing you to see if you’d recognise him. How can you play dumb? I understand you’re troubled to meet Gil-galad today, the cousin you’ve never met, but you should know who Elrond is.”

“It is true Elrond reminds me of someone I used to know,” Maeglin frowned. “I doubt they are both related.”

Thranduil stared as if Maeglin were the greatest cretin Arda had known after Morgoth. “Don’t you know his patronymic?”

“No,” retorted Maeglin. “You’re the one who corresponds with other kings and lords, not me.”

“Can’t you be stupider than you already are?!” Thranduil yelled. “The two of you are related!”

“Related?” exclaimed Elrond. His eyes opened wide.

“What? How?” said Maeglin, stunned.

Thranduil groaned. “You thick head of a Golodh! He’s Elrond Eärendilion.”

Maeglin blanched. “No…”

Elrond blushed and looked at his feet. “Yes,” he said with a small voice.

“Thranduil,” Maeglin’s tone was cold. “Go find Celebrimbor. Immediately.”

“But-”

“Now!”

Thranduil opened his mouth to object, but after a quick glance at Elrond, thought otherwise and left the room.

Maeglin drew a chair and fell heavily on it. He rubbed his forehead. For the first time of his life, he felt old. He realised what it meant to be from another Age. “Sit,” he told Elrond. “You and I have a lot to discuss.”

Elrond complied. Nervous, he clenched his hands. He waited, not daring to speak. He silenced the thousand questions that burnt at the edge of his lips.

After a moment, Maeglin’s voice was heard again: “Your grandfather was a dear friend of mine. So was Idril, my cousin and your grandmother. You look so much like Tuor I must have been an idiot for not connecting the dots together.” His mouth twitched in a cynical smile. “I held your father when he was a newborn, and watched him grow until I flee from Gondolin.”

 

***

Celebrimbor was pleased with himself. He neglected his duty as host in favour of enjoying Galadriel’s company in his salon. Tired of the festive energy of the guests, she had escaped the ground floor to find refuge on the third, where Celebrimbor had found her.

On the drawer next to the divan sat a box. In this particular box was the elessar he had crafted for her. He would gift it to her. Then, Galadriel would admit her secret love for him, and they would elope in the mountains to find refuge among the Dwarves. Celebrimbor’s plan was immaculate, nevermind that Galadriel loved her husband and never fancied Celebrimbor the way he wished her to.

Their lovesick escape had to wait, for Celebrimbor was prattling about his wristbands, forged by Narvi a long time ago. The Dwarf had passed away centuries back, and Celebrimbor missed him dearly.

As Galadriel made a comment on the relationship between Dwarves and Elves, and the tragedy of Beleriand, the door burst open.

“Ancalagon’s testicles!” Thranduil roared. “There you are! Come with me!”

“Hello, Thranduil,” said Galadriel. Celebrimbor swore under his breath. The moment was ruined.

“You’re here, too?” Thranduil narrowed his eyes. “Why? Oh, don’t answer me, I don’t care. It’s a good thing I found you. The two of you, come with me. Quick!”

“What in the world is going on?” grunted Celebrimbor.

“I’ll explain as soon as you remove your Western bottom from your couch,” snapped Thranduil. “It’s urgent.”

“I concur: why are you agitated?” asked Galadriel.

Thranduil closed his eyes. “I introduced Elrond to Maeglin.”

“It’s nice,” said Galadriel, “to meet his family. It must feel reassuring to Lómion to know he’s no longer alone. Nothing to worry about.”

“That’s the issue, you see: Maeglin and Elrond had no idea. Maeglin sent me to find Celebrimbor, I’m not sure precisely why. If you walked quicker, I’d truly appreciate.”

“None of them knew?” repeated Celebrimbor.

“Not at all.”

Celebrimbor and Galadriel exchanged a quick glance.

“Well, shit.”

It was a rare occurrence to hear Galadriel swear. Celebrimbor found he was strangely blessed in this moment.

 

***

There was quite a commotion in the dining room when Thranduil came back. Glorfindel had previously decided he wished to explore Celebrimbor’s abode, and as all things that were manipulated by fate’s bad humour, he found his way in the dining room. What he saw shook him to the core.

“I thought you dead!” he shouted in Quenya. He threw his arm in the air. Elrond, fearing he’d struck Maeglin, grabbed his wrist. “We all did! I was there in Mandos, and you weren’t! I looked for you, searched for you in the Halls. Itarillë spread all those horrible rumours about you: that you loved her like a man loves a woman, that you were heartbroken, went to Angamando and sold us to Moringotto! That you came one night, and Tuor slayed you! She said he pushed you off a cliff! Tuor never denied anything.”

“None of this was-,” started Maeglin.

“It was all lies! I couldn’t believe it. The citizens did. I couldn’t believe it because despite your refusal to conform to social rules you deemed unworthy, you never lacked integrity,” Glorfindel went on, out of himself. “Yet you weren’t there. Suddenly, boom! Gone without a trace. Turukáno was heartbroken. I’ve never seen your uncle this devastated! You betrayed him by leaving. You betrayed us. Why? Why have you done this? Why did Itarillë fabricate those stories? What was all this about?”

Elrond sighed of relief when he saw Celebrimbor, followed by Galadriel. He couldn’t follow Glorfindel’s speech clearly. Celebrimbor made a stiff gesture of the hand. Elrond let go of Glorfindel’s wrist.

Galadriel walked up to Maeglin and put her hand on his shoulder. He trembled slightly. He pressed the heel of his hands against his eyes. Something buried deep beneath was shattered to pieces.

“She said she’d cover me,” he whispered. “It was a deal we made. She promised to do everything in her power to mask my tracks. I assume that’s the purpose these rumours served.”

“But you left us,” Glorfindel repeated, accusatory. “You left us, and-”

“Yes, I did!” snarled Maeglin. “I could never sacrifice myself! There was no future for me in the city.” He swallowed and added, his voice low, “The curse of the Exiles does not concern me. I was born among stars and trees, not stone. I had to go. Years passed between the Fall and the news coming to me. I was in Rhovanion when I learnt of it. There was nothing I could do. It was too late.”

“That’s all very well,” Thranduil interrupted them in Sindarin. “But you folks are speaking this odd tongue that nobody understands. Care to summarise what the Void that was?”

Maeglin, despite the anger that was built in his chest, chuffed. Celebrimbor managed an amused smirk.

“Familial tragedy,” said Galadriel.

Thranduil hissed. “Nevermind, I don’t want to know. Ló-ya was right: that branch of the family is quite the spectacle.” He shook his head.

“I’m not a relative,” protested Glorfindel.

Thranduil cast him an unimpressed look.

“Let’s finish this conversation elsewhere,” demanded Celebrimbor. “Unless you want others to hear.”

“Oh, believe me, it’d be a miracle if they didn’t. I bet the neighbouring Dwarves heard as well,” commented Thranduil. He gracefully ignored Glorfindel’s poisonous glare.

Elrond attempted to ease the tense atmosphere: “At least I have a new cousin?”

“More like a great-uncle figure, but yes,” said Celebrimbor.

Thranduil grimaced. “I didn’t know you were that old,” he told Maeglin.

“I’m not,” this last one replied.

Elrond smiled.